


And Mean It

by Decepticonsensual



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Background Dominus Ambus/Rewind, Gen, Implied Deadlock/Hot Rod, M/M, One-Sided Brainstorm/Quark, Past Prowl/Chromedome - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-01
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-07-23 12:39:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 23,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16159148
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Decepticonsensual/pseuds/Decepticonsensual
Summary: A collection of short fics for Lost Light Fest 2018, each one based on a specific prompt.  (Prompts in the chapter titles.)





	1. Ultra Magnus

**Author's Note:**

> Please note: may contain spoilers through the latest issue of Lost Light.

Ultra Magnus had prepared for this.

 

He double-checked the alignment of the glasses with the placemats, with the edges of his table. The glasses’ asymmetry nagged at him. One was small, full of a rich engex blend, and the other large, containing a relatively miniscule splash of weak energon spritzer. Both were borrowed from Swerve’s, with a number of solemn vows that Magnus would return them in exactly the same condition, which seemed to amuse the bartender. Swerve had waved off the promises, pointing out that more glassware than that got broken on a good night, anyway, but Magnus had insisted. He took his promises seriously.

 

And he’d been avoiding this one for too long.

 

The door chime rang, and Magnus rose to let his visitor in.

 

“I thought we could… toast,” he began stiffly, gesturing to the table. “It seemed appropriate, given the circumstances.”

 

Rewind gazed up at him, expressionless. Then, “Yeah,” and he brushed past Magnus, seating himself in front of the smaller glass. He didn’t touch it.

 

Feeling like the armour was suddenly too tight, Magnus sat across from him. He reached for his own glass, but Rewind’s voice stopped him.

 

“So. On Cyberutopia. You saw him, too.”

 

Magnus nodded, slowly. “I was able to… say goodbye.”

 

“Is that all?”

 

Magnus glanced up from his hands at the roughness of the tone. Rewind had his visor turned away.

 

As though every word were being slowly tugged from him, like wires painfully being disconnected, Magnus said, “I told him I missed him. That I think of him every day. And I was able to hear him say to me… well. Things I’d wanted to hear.”

 

“That’s it, isn’t it? Things we _wanted_ to hear.” Rewind sighed, then blurted out, “I don’t. Think of him. Not every day, I mean. It’s been a while since it was every day. I don’t know when I stopped.”

 

There was a pause, and then something happened that Magnus (if he was going to be brutally blunt about it) would have called _statistically implausible._ Both mechs spoke at once, in the exact same words.

 

“ _I’m so sorry.”_

 

Rewind blinked. “What are you sorry for?”

 

“For your loss.” Magnus forced himself to finish the thought. “And for – not telling you my original identity, at first. You and I had not always gotten along, and I concluded that if I had no information to impart about his whereabouts, a conversation between us was pointless. I apologise. I should have given you that choice, at least.” He frowned. “What are _you_ sorry for?”

 

“For _killing your brother!_ ” Rewind let out a strangled, awful sound that could almost have been a laugh, except that it really wasn’t. “I don’t think dodging a conversation for a few months really compares, do you? Minimus –” and here he planted his hands on the table and practically lunged forward – “Chromedome was ready to give up his _life_ to bring Dom back. I’m the one who stopped him. I didn’t even hesitate.” He tilted his head, trying to catch Magnus’s expression. “And I’d do it again. But you have every right to hate me for it.”

 

“My brother made his choice.” Magnus surprised himself with how easy it was to say, now. “He did it knowing the likely cost. I don’t believe he would have wanted Chromedome to die for him.”

 

Rewind subsided in his chair. He looked… bare, somehow, like a protective layer had been scoured away, but less weary than he had a moment before. “You knew him the best. Better than I did, in the end. You really think so?”

 

For a moment, Magnus was silent, not wanting to point out that to _know_ was not to _understand,_ and that was where he had always struggled. But perhaps he did understand, after all.

 

“I think...” If he tilted his glass the right way, he could see his reflection. “I think Dominus wanted nothing more in the universe than to protect you. To protect us all. I think if he’d been in a position to make the choice himself, then… he would have chosen as you did.”

 

In the quiet that followed, there was a faint hydraulic hiss, and the armour opened and slid away; and Minimus Ambus placed a small hand over Rewind’s.

 

A moment later, Rewind covered it with his own.

 

“Thank you,” he murmured, and then raised his glass. “All right, then. To Dominus Ambus.”

 

Minimus lifted his own glass – awkwardly, needing both hands, but less ashamed of the picture he presented than he’d thought he would be. They were family, after all. “To Dominus Ambus.”


	2. Rodimus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I honestly sat down intending to write something dark, and this sugary-sweet fic would not be suppressed. :) Hope you enjoy!

The little box sat heavy in Rodimus’s recently reconstructed palm.

 

It was made of a soft organic material, the dark brown glowing lushly against his bright plating. Behind him, Swerve whispered, “Where’d you get that box, anyway?” and one of the new crew – Misfire, that was it – replied, “Oh, we stole it frrrraaaaahhhh Krok that was my _foot_!”

 

“We _found_ it on Troja Major,” Krok’s soft voice cut in.

 

“Right. Great place to _find_ things, Troja Major, I’ve always thought.” He could hear the smile in Anode’s voice.

 

Rodimus listened to all this with half an audial as he slowly reached for the lid.

 

“Go on, Captain,” Nautica urged quietly.

 

Cycling a deep ventilation, Rodimus flipped back the lid of the box. There, nestled in the material, was…

 

“Well?” Brainstorm was practically bouncing on his toes. “What do you think?”

 

The shape was familiar. A wide, roughly teardrop silhouette, with flames on either side – a Rodimus Star. But it wasn’t gold; rather, a motley swirl of different metals, some spotted with age, others gleaming. And in the middle, instead of his own face, there was a delicately etched outline of the _Lost Light_.

 

“Hey! Think we can hurry this up?” Whirl shouted from the back, after Rodimus had spent a long moment just staring. “Pin the stupid piece of slag on him, and let’s get it over with!”

 

“Whirl did the design himself,” Tailgate announced loudly.

 

Whirl loosely looped a claw around Tailgate’s throat, pretending to strangle him. “Betrayed me for the last time, munchkin.” Tailgate laughed, and somehow the mock-throttling turned into Whirl’s arm around Tailgate’s shoulders, even as Whirl turned his head away.

 

“Swerve and Anode helped us blend the metal,” Drift chipped in. “All the medics worked on the construction – Ratch, Velocity, First Aid – although the credit really goes to Spinister and Nickel for working out how to create it. They had the expertise, you see.” At Rodimus’s puzzled glance, he smiled and added, “Decepticons. You remember my telling you that the Deceptibrand is fashioned out of a piece of your spark casing? Well… turns out you only need a little sliver of each casing, when you’ve got a whole crew volunteering.”

 

Through the light starting to stream from the corners of his optics, Rodimus gazed around at a sea of grinning faces. Every single member of his crew, he suddenly realised, was wearing a Rodimus Star. Even the Scavengers, who’d laughed when he’d presented them with the decorations as thanks for their part in the final battle. Even Nickel, who’d initially refused hers, incensed at being treated like some _Autobot._ Even Megatron.

 

“Well, put it on him!” someone yelled – if Rodimus didn’t know better, he’d think that was _Ratchet’s_ voice – and Ultra Magnus stepped forward. Taking the box from Rodimus’s unresisting hand, he gently affixed the badge to Rodimus’s plating. “On behalf of the entire crew – by unanimous vote – I hereby award you this first-ever _Lost Light_ Star.” Magnus stood back and, just for a fraction of a second, smiled. “For best captain.”

 

The room erupted in cheers. Rodimus managed to rally himself to speak, but he could never remember, afterwards, exactly what he’d said; only what the words really meant. _Thank you. Thank you. Thank you._

 

“Your idea?” he asked Drift later, once he was ensconced at the bar, a drink in his hand and his crew all chattering and laughing in little knots around him.

 

Drift shook his hand, then gestured with his optics over Rodimus’s shoulder. Rodimus turned to find Megatron behind him.

 

“Four million years ago, I had hoped you might wear my emblem,” rumbled the voice that had once rallied an army to conquer a galaxy. Megatron gestured at the Rodimus Star on his chest. “Now, I am proud to wear yours.”

 

Rodimus found himself, for once, lost for words. Instead, he reached out his hand – and Megatron took it.

 

_(It might be that here, in the heart of the Warren, time is malleable; because at this moment, Rodimus spots the ghostly blue outlines of two dead mechs in the corner. He starts, but they seem to be looking right through him, at a scene even further back in time._

 

_He hears one say, Do you think they survived?_

 

_He hears the answer, in a voice that still startles him out of dreams, sometimes – but here it isn’t nightmarish. It’s just ordinary, a little mulish, and fragile underneath, as if it might shatter._

 

_Yes._

 

_All of them?_

 

_Yes._

 

_And Rodimus’s spark twists, just a bit, because they didn’t all make it – but the weight of Megatron’s hand in his, the warm crackle of Drift’s EM field, a quick pat on the shoulder as Chromedome passes by, they ground him. And he turns away, back to the living.)_


	3. Drift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay, it's technically Deadlock. Guess my attention on this prompt must have... DRIFTED.
> 
> *ducks flying tomatoes*
> 
> Deadlock has an encounter with a certain Autobot early in the war. Implied Deadlock/Hot Rod shippiness, but could also be read as platonic if that's more your jam.

Deadlock grinned, a wild flash of fangs in the near-total darkness of the tunnel. Far away, just at the edge of his vision, he’d spotted red plating and a flashy golden spoiler careening around the corner at a speed that was borderline insanity for such a tight, twisting space.

 

He holstered his gun and leapt.

 

As long as he lived – however long that might be – Deadlock didn’t think he’d ever get tired of the feeling of changing shape on a full tank of fuel. Gone were the days of lurching and trembling his way through an agonising transformation to escape the enforcers on his skidplate, willing just a tiny bit more from the fumes of energon that were all he had left to sustain him. Transforming now felt like dancing. He twisted in midair, limbs and circuits pouring seamlessly from one form to the other, and hit the ground already accelerating. Cocky little ’Bot wasn’t getting away that easily.

 

Engine roaring, Deadlock tore down the tunnel. His quarry was wily, and seemed to know Cybertron’s underground levels as well as Deadlock himself. They raced around hairpin turns, driving up onto walls slick with subterranean trickles of oil, and jumped chasms that made Deadlock’s spark pound. Battle was one thing – battle made him feel strong and almost preternaturally clear, the universe narrowed to a single point – but this was even better. Deadlock felt so _alive._

 

Finally, finally, in a disused gladiatorial pit that had been abandoned even before Megatron’s day, Deadlock ran his prey to ground. The Autobot spun frantically around the empty arena, looking for another way out, and Deadlock transformed and pounced, pinning him.

 

Hot Rod transformed underneath him, gazing up with wide optics as Deadlock straddled his chest. They were both cycling air raggedly, condensation dripping from their plating. Deadlock almost fancied he could feel the whir of Hot Rod’s spark.

 

Deadlock smiled. “Gotcha.”

 

Hot Rod smiled back.

 

***

 

Later, when they were preparing to head back to their separate armies, Hot Rod made the offer. It had started a long time ago, as an impulse, and become a kind of ritual. “Come with me.”

 

“Never,” Deadlock replied automatically, without rancor. But then, as he stared down at Hot Rod – still stretched languidly on the ground, a mess of scratches and oil and yet grinning as brightly as ever – Deadlock found himself adding something he’d never said before. “ _You_ come with _me._ ”

 

For a full sparkbeat, Hot Rod seemed to consider it. Then he shook his head, his smile turning sad.

 

The refusal was expected – the refusal was _inevitable_ ; it was the sadness that made Deadlock’s rage flare. He stalked away from Hot Rod, threw, “Until next time, then… Autobot,” over his shoulder, and sped off before Hot Rod had a chance to reply.


	4. Stranded Scavengers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Fulcrum's first day awake after nearly dying, and the world he's returned to is unrecognisable. So what's one more change?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Slight reference to canon death.

It said something about Fulcrum’s life that the first time someone touched him gently, out of genuine want, in thousands of years, was when he woke up on a charnel yard with a stranger cradling his exposed fuel pump.

 

Ones that little misunderstanding was cleared up, Fulcrum was amazed how _tactile_ the Scavengers were with one another. Misfire was constantly touching his teammates on the arm or draping himself over their shoulders or grabbing them by the hand to drag them off on his latest hunt for mythical personifications of death; but Misfire was… unique. And was also, for at least the first few hours Fulcrum knew him, _high as cake._ So perhaps that level of affection from him was to be expected.

 

But it wasn’t just Misfire. Flywheels would earnestly grasp people by the shoulders to make a point, or lay his hand over theirs when he was being sincere (or trying to fake it, although in those cases the sudden change of shape usually gave the game away). Crankcase, for all his perennial bad mood, didn’t hesitate to casually lean against Krok or Flywheels, scowling the whole time. Even Spinister would sometimes rest a large hand affectionately on someone’s head (when he wasn’t staring with deep suspicion at hands, head, or both).

 

Krok, while he was more subtle about it, touched almost as frequently as Misfire. Fulcrum got the sense, though, that while Krok might enjoy being close to his team, there was also something calculated about his affection. A clap on the back encouraged; a hand on the chest restrained. Little pats and half-hugs, as the Scavengers worked their way across the battlefield, seemed to have a soothing effect on the team. (Fulcrum wasn’t sure what the occasional swat to the back of Misfire’s helm accomplished, but possibly even Krok had limits.)

 

So Fulcrum shouldn’t have been surprised when the six of them sat down around a campfire that night, and Misfire practically crawled into his lap.

 

He _really_ was, though. He’d only just gotten over the shock of the not-as-dead-as-imagined fire piping up (Krok, thankfully, had taken care of the Autobot now), so when he felt the touch on his thigh, he jumped. Misfire had been sitting on the ground in front of him to get closer to the blaze in order to warm his wings; when Flywheels asked whether the circuit speeders were out of his system, Misfire had turned and folded his hands across Fulcrum’s knee so he could lean over him to answer.

 

When Fulcrum twitched, Misfire froze. Then he looked up, very slowly, as if concerned about Fulcrum’s reaction.

 

Fulcrum himself didn’t know quite what that reaction was. A rush of warmth went through him at the touch; it was almost dizzying, after so long. He could feel his faceplates heat, but after the initial shock, the weight of Misfire against his legs was… well, nice.

 

He raised a hand and, very tentatively, patted Misfire’s helm.

 

Misfire grinned, then resumed his mile-a-minute babble to Flywheels – but he laid his cheek against Fulcrum’s leg as he did it, and Fulcrum continued to stroke his head, as carefully as if he were repairing delicate equipment. Movement out of the corner of an optic made Fulcrum turn towards Krok, who lifted a hand, clearly telegraphing the move, and settled it on Fulcrum’s shoulder, slowly sliding it up to cup the back of his neck.

 

Fulcrum leaned into the touch and smiled, and Krok’s optics crinkled in response.


	5. Shadowplay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chromedome's used to late-night texts from his ex (an occupational hazard when your ex is also second-in-command of the faction you serve, and you have a very rare set of skills he frequently needs). But this one is different, and it sends him to the New Institute in a panic, looking for answers. He may not like what he finds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shadowplay (... kind of obviously), though it's all consensual here; suicide attempt; references to canon violence.

Chromedome was long used to Prowl’s orders. In the eons since he’d become Optimus’s second-in-command, Prowl had never hesitated to presume on Chromedome’s time (or his personal comm line) with brusque, urgent instructions about Chromedome’s next Important Contribution To The Autobot Cause. Chromedome grumbled, and rolled his optics, and occasionally switched his comm off (one time pitching it into a cube of engex)… but he always turned up.

 

In all that time, Chromedome had come to know the style and cadence of Prowl’s messages well. Enough to realise, without really being able to say how, that there was something different about the order he’d received tonight. Between the sparse lines, something was bleeding through.

 

Chromedome vaulted off his recharge slab and transformed before he hit the floor, zooming towards the New Institute.

 

“What happened?” he gasped as he sprinted through the door – and the sight that confronted him stopped him dead.

 

Prowl was standing in front of a viewing window into one of the examination rooms. The Autobot 2IC’s arms were rigid at his sides, and he didn’t bother turning when Chromedome entered.

 

Behind the reinforced glass, Skids was screaming.

 

The rooms were completely soundproofed, but there was no mistaking, because Skids’s screams took up his whole body. Light was streaming from his optics, and every cable of his frame was taut as he threw his weight against his restraints.

 

“Why’s he in shackles?” Chromedome asked, horrified.

 

Prowl’s voice was tight and strange. “Because he tried to offline himself.”

 

Chromedome’s spark gave an ugly lurch in his chest. “Last I heard he was on bomb disposal duty, what -”

 

“Missing, presumed killed. Thunderclash found him when his team liberated Grindcore. We can’t get anything out of him about what he saw, but...”

 

Inside the room, Skids’s struggles had stopped, and he was mouthing something.

 

“Is that why I’m here? To harvest the information in his head?” Chromedome couldn’t keep the disgust from his voice.

 

Prowl looked at him, then. And turned on the examination room’s intercom.

 

“ - me forget. Please, Prowl! _Please!_ Let me forget, or – or kill me!”

 

The silence after the intercom was switched back off was like a physical thing.

 

“Please,” Prowl said thickly.

 

***

 

The shadowplay itself was simple. Skids’s mind unfolded itself willingly, almost telling him where to cut. Chromedome took his time, making it precise and clean.

 

He still resurfaced crying, his ventilations heaving, and Prowl’s hands steadying him felt so natural that Chromedome leaned back into his arms, trying to bury his face against Prowl’s neck.

 

“Oh, Primus, oh, fuck, they’re – they’re alive, they’re harvesting _sentio metallico_ from the prisoners and they’re _alive,_ Prowl. They’re holding each other and they’re burning...”

 

Prowl’s arms wrapped around him, briefly.

 

“It gets worse.” Chromedome shook himself and straightened up, avoiding optic contact. “You remember Brainstorm’s scientist? Quark?”

 

Prowl’s expression was blank as he listened. His doors twitched. “I’ll tell Brainstorm.”

 

“No, let me. He might want to -” Chromedome waggled his needles - “after.”

 

And then an expression _did_ pass over Prowl’s face, but Chromedome couldn’t read it. “Would you? Choose to forget someone, if you lost them?”

 

Chromedome shrugged. “If it were as traumatic as that? Sure.”

 

Prowl kept watching him with an odd intensity, and Chromedome stared back. Then Prowl turned and opened the door, leading Chromedome out of the examination room and into Prowl’s office. As they went, Prowl said – with a kind of awkward lightness – “You’ve never erased me.”

 

“Well, if you weren’t _constantly in my life_ to the point where it’s a little hard to forget you –”

 

“You know what I mean. Our past.”

 

“Yeah, well.” _Can’t let myself forget the hold I have over you,_ was on the tip of Chromedome’s tongue, but he looked at Prowl and he couldn’t say it. Prowl looked so _tired._ “No, I haven’t.” He coughed. “So. What happens to Skids now? Back into the field?”

 

Some of the bitterness must have bubbled up through his words, because Prowl looked at him sharply. “We’ve got Decepticons melting people alive on an industrial scale, Chromedome. It’s not as though I can let good operatives sit on the bench.” He sat down at his desk. “Not alone, though. Skids is going to need re-training when he’s recovered, and I’ve got a new recruit I can train up alongside him, as a partner. The enforcers picked up an attempted deserter, yesterday, an MTO. Tried to run from his first fight.”

 

“And that’s who you want watching Skids’s back? Someone whose first action in this world was to run away?”

 

“There have been cases of people who tried to flee the war doing decently for themselves in the Autobot ranks afterwards,” Prowl said, raising an optic ridge coolly, and Chromedome snorted a laugh in spite of himself. “Skids can find his sense of daring. And having a partner will give him something to stick around for.”

 

“What makes you so sure that your deserter has something to offer Skids in exchange?”

 

Prowl smiled; a thin, private thing. “Because he’d been conscious for sixteen seconds when he decided to run.”

 

“And?”

 

“And he was almost at the Galactic Rim when they finally caught him.”

 

Chromedome whistled. Prowl picked up a datapad, nodding a dismissal (which always drove Chromedome nuts)… and then put the pad down again. “Are you going to be all right?”

 

“Me? Sure – injecting is what I _do_. I’m fine.” Chromedome took a step towards the door, and stopped. “Prowl.”

 

“Mmm.”

 

“Did you ever want to? You know. Forget. After – after us.”

 

“I’m Autobot second-in-command, Tumbler. I can’t afford to start forgetting things.”

 

Chromedome was out in the corridor before he realised that wasn’t an answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: This could be considered either a very slight AU or, if you prefer, you can interpret it as Chromedome later not being entirely honest with Skids about how much he knows about Skids's missing memories. (The intention was for it to be an AU, but the darker interpretation really works, too.)


	6. Nautica

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just another day in the life of the Lost Light's chief engineer and her slightly explosion-happy colleague-cum-lab-assistant. :)

“I really appreciate you helping me with this experiment, Brainstorm.” Nautica crouched to very gently tap at the side of the device in front of her. The swirling colours on its display shuddered for a second, then realigned. The smear of blue-purple forming in the centre was one of the most beautiful things she’d ever seen.

 

“No problem!” Brainstorm struck a pose. “Always good to have someone else on hand for when it explodes.”

 

Nautica straightened and looked at him wide-opticked. “This isn’t going to _explode._ ”

 

“You’d be surprised. Although, really, you’ve known me for long enough that you shouldn’t be -”

 

“No, you don’t understand. If this explodes, it would be very, very bad.”

 

“Well, maybe, but you can learn a lot from an explosion! Sometimes more than from a successful experiment!”

 

“Brainstorm.” Nautica gripped his shoulders. “If this device explodes, reality will eat itself.”

 

“Oh.” Brainstorm deflated. “So I guess we should stop that happening.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“Point of interest.” Brainstorm pointed over Nautica’s shoulder. “What’s that?”

 

Nautica spun around. The display was continuing to coalesce into a single dot of colour, just as she’d hypothesised. What she _hadn’t_ expected was the way the flat image seemed to be trying to acquire a third dimension. It was… _swelling,_ pushing out from the screen like someone was blowing a soap bubble very slowly. An abstract representation of extradimensional energy, forcing its way into their universe.

 

Even as the fuel in Nautica’s lines ran cold, the “bubble” broke free and began drifting through the air.

 

“After it!” she yelled, and she and Brainstorm both scrambled to catch up. “Don’t touch it – get it contained!”

 

“ _How?”_

 

“Electrical current!” Nautica snatched up her wrench and stretched it towards the errant bubble of reality. She’d almost managed to bring it in contact when the bubble touched the wall –

 

– Nautica and Brainstorm ducked –

 

– and passed right through it.

 

Nautica’s hand slammed down on the door release. She raced outside just in time to see the bubble bobbing sedately down the corridor.

 

They chased it down two hallways, only to watch it vanish through another bulkhead; Nautica hammered on the nearest door until it opened, then shoved her way past a puzzled Cyclonus and jumped up on the desk, dashing along it to execute a running leap, wrench outstretched –

 

The bubble vanished, and Nautica hit the deck hard. “Owwww.”

 

“What on _Cybertron –_ ” Cyclonus began.

 

“Do you need to catch that thing?” Tailgate piped up.

 

“Yes.”

 

“It’s back in the corridor, Nauts!” Brainstorm’s voice came through the comms. “I’m after it – damn, how is it suddenly that _fast_?”

 

“Quantum entanglement with the _look I’ll explain later!_ ” Nautica replied. Tailgate coughed, and when she looked up, he pointed to his hoverboard in the corner.

 

Nautica grabbed it. “Thanks! I’ll be careful with it!” she called, already throwing the board down and leaping aboard.

 

With Brainstorm in jet mode above her, Nautica chased the bubble through the medbay (wincing at Ratchet’s outraged shrieks behind them), through Drift’s meditation corner (“You mean you can see it, too? I thought it was an abstract symbol I’d manifested through positive energy!”), down by the oil reservoir and up to the archives. Finally, the bubble – which had grown in the course of the pursuit, and was pulsing alarmingly – seemed to slow. Nautica stood on tiptoe to reach the wrench towards it –

 

– and Rodimus rounded the corner between her and her quarry.

 

“Look OUT!” Nautica shouted, but Brainstorm was quicker; he ploughed right into the captain, lifting Rodimus off his feet and pushing him into the wall, just as the current from Nautica’s wrench touched the bubble and it froze, colours dulling. She let out a long ventilation.

 

Rodimus raised a brow ridge at Brainstorm, who still had him pinned against the wall, and grinned. “Hey there.”

 

Brainstorm stepped away in a hurry, making a few, abortive motions towards dusting the captain down. “Sorry, Rodders.”

 

“No worries. So. Escaped experiment?”

 

Both scientists looked at the floor and nodded.

 

“Everything okay now?”

 

“Yes, it’s contained,” Nautica said. “And about to completely turn everything we know about quantum physics on its head, I’d guess, once I get it back to the lab.”

 

“Brilliant. So no need for Ultra Magnus to ever hear about this, right?” He winked.

 

Nautica smiled in return. “I’d appreciate it very much, Captain.”

 

Rodimus made to turn away, and then glanced back coyly past his spoiler. “Just out of curiosity… _how_ much would you appreciate it?”

 

And that’s the story of how Rodimus ended up with a jetpack.


	7. Chromedome and Rewind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's a few years after the end of the Lost Light's quest, and Chromedome and Rewind have made new lives for themselves - though not free of old memories. (AKA A Tale of Two Titles.)
> 
> Warning: MASSIVE spoilers for LL 24!

“Well, what do you think?” Rewind asked, and then added with a definite grin in his voice, “ _Doc?_ ”

 

“I’ll never get used to that,” Chromedome replied, plonking a second box of datapads on the desk. This stack contained most of his psychiatry textbooks, which he didn’t feel ready to let go of just yet. Maybe once he’d actually seen a patient or two. His shelves were already lined with the more advanced volumes – by Rung, by Froid, by “Froid” (ghostwritten by Rung), by prominent pre-war experts in psychiatry and mnemosurgery, and by a few Decepticon psychiatrists as well. Chromedome had been startled and touched when he found out that Rung had bequeathed him a large part of his personal library (with the non-psychiatry books going mostly to Nautica). Rung’s own works were on the bookshelf nearest Chromdeome’s chair, ready to hand; and above them hung a framed candid photo of Rung, holding a model ship and beaming up at Rewind.

 

Rewind perched on the end of the desk. “I won’t lie, it’s kinda hot. _Doctor_ Domey.”

 

“Yeah? You like that?” Chromedome leaned over Rewind, bracketing him between his hands.

 

“Oooh, Doctor Chromedome, can you make me feel _alllll better_?”

 

Chromedome nuzzled his mask against Rewind’s. “Mmmm. You’re incorrigible.”

 

“You love it.”

 

“No argument there.”

 

“Doc, you’ve got to help me, I feel all – hot and feverish all over –”

 

“I think I have _just_ the thing for that...”

 

“And I have this throbbing ache in my –”

 

“You know, I actually paid good shanix for that desk you’re defiling.”

 

Chromedome sprang backwards, and Rewind lolled his head back on the desk dramatically. “Ugh, Decepticons are such _mood killers._ You’d think, for a faction so obsessed with combination, they’d give people a little privacy to get on with – y’know – _combining._ ”

 

“That’s because we’ve finally succeeded in combining Buzzsaw and Killmaster into our ultimate weapon.” Krok leaned back on the doorframe, his optics twinkling. “Buzzkillmaster.”

 

There was a pause, and then Chromedome groaned from the depths of his soul and Rewind _cackled._

 

(They’d started doing this a lot, Rewind and the Scavengers: telling each other terrible jokes, dark jokes, jokes-that-weren’t-really-jokes, about the war, and then laughing like drains. Chromedome found himself joining in more and more, even when the joke was awful and he’d be hard pressed to explain why he was laughing. It felt like release.)

 

“You didn’t buy the desk at all,” Chromedome griped, helping Rewind down off it. “It’s built out of scrap. By Brainstorm.” (At that, Rewind scrambled down off the surface a little faster, looking back at the desk like it might explode.)

 

“Scrap I paid for.”

 

“Misfire stole it from an alien shipyard!”

 

“And I paid his bail when he got caught, what is it you’re so confused about?” Krok spread his hands. “Anyway, I just came by to see how you were getting on. Your first patient is booked in for noon.”

 

“Keen, aren’t they?” Chromedome muttered, taking the schedule from Krok’s hand a little nervously. His first patient was an Autobot, he saw; then two Decepticons back to back, and then –

 

“ _Max?_ ” Chromedome blinked. “Fort Max trusts _me_ to take over his treatment? _On my first day?_ ”

 

Rewind slipped a hand into his conjunx’s. “Rung believed in you, sweetspark. People who trusted him will trust you, too, because of him.” He squeezed Chromedome’s hand. “And then because of you, once they see what you can do.”

 

Krok started towards the door. “I’d better see how the others are settling in. And, Chromedome?” He looked back. “Thank you. You’re going to do a lot of good for a lot of people here.”

 

Chromedome met his optics. “Thank you for giving me the chance.”

 

Krok nodded, and left.

 

It didn’t take much longer to arrange the rest of Chromedome’s things. Rewind finished by setting the framed photo of the two of them on the desk with a flourish.

 

“I’ll leave you to get ready for your patients. I gotta get down to the theatre. Hey.” Rewind took Chromedome’s hand between both of his, and craned upwards; Chromedome bent down to touch their foreheads together. “You got this.”

 

Chromedome let out a gusty ventilation, and nodded. “What about you? Everything set for the big premiere tonight?”

 

“Don’t even remind me. Blurr’s trying to jack up his catering fees, the Earth delegation apparently all need to breathe something called oxygen, it’s a mess.” But his tone was more excited than annoyed. “You’ll be able to get out of here in time, right?”

 

“I’ll even have time for a real polish. Didn’t you hear? I’m the kept mech of a big-time director now, I gotta look good for the red carpet.”

 

Rewind beamed.

 

After an exchange of nuzzles and I-love-yous, Chromedome found himself alone in his new office for the first time. He paced, straightening a piece of art here, reordering a few volumes there, until the place was in perfect order even to his restless optics. He checked his chronometer.

 

Another hour to go.

 

Chromedome sat down and switched on a datapad he’d been using to draft his first paper as a newly-minted psychiatrist. Might as well at least make some notes, if his mind wouldn’t settle. The writing was coming slowly; sometimes, it downright hurt. But Chromedome was determined to finish. He owed a debt.

 

And at least he already had the title.

 

The top of the page read, _Forgive Yourselves: Guilt, Atonement, and Recovery in a Post-War Context._

 

_***_

 

Rewind’s low whistle when he saw Chromedome made the latter blush, and made the hour he’d spent with a tin of the fanciest polish Iacon’s new shops could provide entirely worth it.

 

“Come on; we’re right in the front.” Rewind took Chromedome’s arm and led him past the throngs of chatting dignitaries and through the grand double doors. The refurbished Hyperium Theatre still smelled faintly of fresh paint, but the interior made Chromedome’s optics widen, transfixed. This was Old Cybertronian grandeur at its finest, all crystal stars in a gold firmament and fountains of reflected light. But, of course, a cold-constructed ex-cop would never have been allowed in back then, much less as the escort to a “disposable”. Chromedome grinned under his mask.

 

The first three rows of the theatre were crammed with the crew of the _Lost Light,_ who burst into applause when Rewind came down the aisle. Tailgate whooped.

 

“I still can’t believe you let Whirl name the film,” Chromedome whispered, as they took their seats and the lights dimmed.

 

“You’re telling me!” Rewind murmured back. “When he said he’d thought of a name if I wanted, I was expecting, I dunno, _The Unbelievably Sick Adventures of Whirl the Super-Unvincible and Some Losers._ But it genuinely fits; you’ll see.”

 

“That’s really lovely, Rewind.”

 

“And all it took was promising him 80% of the royalties for life.”

 

“ _WHAT?”_ Chromedome hissed, and Rewind burst into giggles.

 

“Kidding! Now shh, it’s starting.”

 

Chromedome put his helm next to Rewind’s and whispered, “So proud of you,” just as the opening credits came up.

 

 

_A Rewind Production_

 

_How To Say Goodbye And Mean It: The Lost Light Story_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't end up including it, but I imagine that Rewind agonised for quite a while about how much he could draw on the film his counterpart made of the early days on the LL (the one we saw in MTMTE 22). In the end, I think he decided that he wouldn't cannibalise it or "remake" it into this film, but he would sometimes use footage from it - always scrupulously credited in the lower corner of the screen - with Chromedome's permission, as the other Rewind's next of kin.


	8. The Adventures of Ratchet and Drift

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A brief interlude between the end of Empire of Stone and Ratchet and Drift's return to the crew in Dying of the Light. It always nagged at me that we saw so little of Drift's reaction to everything that had gone on in his absence. This tries to fill in at least one of the gaps.
> 
> Mentions of canon character deaths and self-harm.

“What’s this?”

 

Drift glanced up from where he was carefully tracing a red stripe under one optic.  “I don’t know, is it a guy who’s supposed to be flying the ship but came back here to bother me instead?”

 

Ratchet stared at him flatly for a long moment.  Then he abruptly shrieked, “Oh, frag, Drift!  We’re gonna die!   _No one’s flying the ship!!_   Surely, our fiery demise is near!  Oh, if  _only_ someone had invented a way  **to _pilot automatically_** …”

 

Drift ducked his head, trying and failing to suppress a smile.

 

“Haven’t seen that in a while,” Ratchet said softly, nodding at his expression.  He sat down across from Drift.  “So?”

 

“It’s to honour Dai Atlas.  A New Crystal City tradition.  Dai never liked the old custom of mutilating the face to show mourning.  He said it was better to honour someone’s life by creating something beautiful than by putting yourself through more pain.”  He peered down into the mirror, starting on the other optic as he spoke.  “The pattern reflects the deceased person.  I chose this one because these are the markings Dai always wore, but it could be based on the colour of someone’s plating, or their energy.  Or just the way they made you feel.”

 

“And was it just the people closest to them who did this?”

 

“No, no – the whole city.  After Wing –”  Drift bowed his head.  “Dai told me about the tradition.  Painted the mourning design on me.  I was in a bad way; I thought, at the time, that he was just trying to keep me from –”  He mimed scratching his own face.  “But then I got out into the streets and everyone was wearing the same markings.  They all recognised how much he’d meant.  And I felt less alone.”  Drift’s voice caught on the last word.  He suddenly looked up, optics desperate.  “How can it all be  _gone,_ Ratchet?  How can there be so few of us left who even remember it?  And I wasn’t even there for long; there’s so much I never learned about that place.  So much that’s lost, now.”

 

Ratchet put his hand over Drift’s.  “Kid… you don’t have to be the archive of every detail about New Crystal City.  Just living as who you are, who you’ve become – you’re one hell of a legacy for them to leave behind.  Dai Atlas would be proud.”

 

Drift looked away, but his hand turned upwards, fingers interlacing with Ratchet’s.

 

“Hey.”  Ratchet rubbed his thumb over the back of Drift’s hand.  “The design.  Do me next.”

 

Drift glanced up.  “You mean that?”

 

“Yeah.”


	9. Luna-1 Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Getaway's going to die here. He knows that, now.
> 
> (Warning for mentions of torture, although no graphic descriptions.)

To the untrained optic, it might look like Getaway’s mind has broken. But that’s not it.

 

Over the course of six months of torture, he’s tried a number of tactics. He’s been grimly unresponsive. He’s been defiant (Tyrest positively _relished_ that; it seemed to please him to have everything he thought of Getaway confirmed). He’s been repentant (short-lived – Tyrest _really didn’t_ like that one). He’s screamed lavishly; he’s stayed silent. He’s debated Autobot philosophy while Tyrest strapped electrodes to his internal circuits. And when the chief justice started looking at him with a certain hunger, and stroking his helm while hurting him, Getaway played along. He’s done worse to escape custody before now. But he realised that it’s not his frame that excites Tyrest; it’s the prospect of seeing it writhe and buckle in agony, seeing it _die._

 

Getaway can’t say he shares that sense of anticipation. Most days.

 

He’s never given anything away, of course (what kind of spy do you take him for?) Never made the mistake, even when he was playing penitent, of confessing to anything in _particular._ No, every tactic’s been designed to do two things: draw Tyrest out – gleaning as many details of his plans as possible – and keep Getaway alive another day. He’s succeeded in both. (Granted, it hasn’t been much of a challenge to get Tyrest talking. The mech loves nothing better than the sound of his own voice, and for all he’s supposed to be interrogating Getaway, he seems almost irritated when Getaway breaks in on his monologues.) By now, Getaway’s got every rant numbered and memorised. For the day he finally gets out of here.

 

And then, a few weeks ago – five months and change since he watched his partner disappear into hyperspace, and long past the point where it would be reasonable to think he’d come back – it truly dawned on Getaway that he’s never getting out of here.

 

And yes, okay, maybe some small part of him died at that. But it wasn’t _breaking._

 

The Boss would call it a _strategic reassessment,_ so that’s exactly what it is.

 

Getaway knows, now, that he’s not going home. (He realises he never thought of it as _home_ before, wouldn’t have said that he had one.) No one knows he’s here but Skids, and Skids must have wiped Getaway from his memory. He’s going to die, and unless there’s a miracle, so is half the Cybertronian race – that is, if Tyrest’s mad device even works. No point, now, in gathering intel he can never report back. No point in fighting to survive.

 

Getaway’s game now is to frustrate, delay, and just plain infuriate Tyrest in every way he can, right up until Tyrest finally ends him. Getaway doesn’t believe in miracles. But the power of being a spanner in the works, of getting someone riled up enough to make a _mistake –_ oh, yes, he believes in that. And in the ferocious satisfaction of seeing Tyrest’s smug facade crack just enough for the rage to seep through.

 

And so he snipes and insinuates and mocks. He laughs and he screams. He slips his bonds every once in a while and runs around smashing and tearing at wiring, undoing weeks of work on the damned killswitch, until they drag him back and make the bonds tighter, the locks more complex, and the cycle starts over. He behaves, in other words, as if Tyrest has broken him. But he hasn’t. He _hasn’t._

 

(He hasn’t...)

 

Of course, Getaway’s tactics still vary. Today, it’s showtunes.

 

“ _Mmmf mmmf mmmf mmmmmmmmrrrrrrrrrrrnnnn...”_

 

Tyrest is reluctant to actually switch Getaway’s vocaliser off, in case he should start spilling state secrets, but it hasn’t stopped him from gagging his prisoner in a vain attempt to muffle the noise. It’s had the effect of making Getaway’s singing less intelligible, but no less _loud._

 

This time, however, when Tyrest returns to the control room, he doesn’t go straight to the table where Getaway’s strapped; nor does he go over to check on and fondle his precious killswitch. Instead, he strolls over to the viewscreens, and smiles at something Getaway can’t see.

 

Only then does he seem to remember that Getaway exists. Still smiling, Tyrest comes over and rests an almost tender hand on Getaway’s forehead. “Last chance to confess your crimes, degenerate. It won’t be much longer now.” He reaches out with one finger and flicks the gag out of Getaway’s mouth.

 

“– _WILL SHIIIIIIINE FOR MEEEEE!_ Oh, hey, darl.” Getaway grins up at him, before snapping his mask shut so fast that it threatens to snag Tyrest’s fingertips. “Tyrest. Tyyyyyrest. Can I call you Ty? Ty-guy. Mai-Ty. Ty-Me-Up, Ty-Me-Down. Now – what are you even _talking_ about, Ty-Dye?”

 

For once, Tyrest doesn’t so much as twitch. Instead, he snaps his fingers. Two of the Legislators come striding forward.

 

“Very well. Throw him in the cell with the others.” Those cold fingers cup Getaway’s chin, and he meets Tyrest’s gaze, because he’s not broken, he’s _not._ “I want him to see who we’ve just caught. I want him to _understand_ that all of his petty resistance is for nothing, and that I will always have justice in the end.”

 

The Legislators fasten a collar around Getaway’s neck – he manages to headbutt one and knock down another before they get it closed, and then the collar gives him a jolt of current that makes his spark stutter in his chest – and drag him down the corridor to the cells, shoving him into the one at the far end. He looks up, and clocks about half a dozen Autobots around him. There’s Hot Rod, and oh, wossname, the little psychiatrist who’s always arguing with the Boss, and…

 

His mouth goes dry, and his voice is thick – and yet, somehow, sounds more like _him_ than it has in months.

 

“ _Skids?”_


	10. Mirage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two possible lives, splitting off from one decision made eons ago. Is Mirage an Autobot dreaming he's a Decepticon... or a Decepticon dreaming he's an Autobot? Or both at once?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This story might not make a lot of sense if you haven't read Spotlight: Mirage, or at least have a general idea of what happens in that issue. This also spoils the end of Spotlight: Mirage. I highly recommend reading it if you can, because it's a brilliant story; however, if you just want to get the background for this story, TFWiki has a great summary of Spotlight: Mirage here: https://tfwiki.net/wiki/Spotlight:_Mirage

Mirage dreamed he was a Decepticon, sometimes. It felt strangely real; the scent of gun oil and stale fear, crammed into the back of a troop transport with a hundred other ’Cons, about to be dropped between their comrades and a bloodthirsty horde of red-badged beserkers. The strut-melting ache of _relief_ in survival as they all piled back aboard after, reeking of spilled fuel, warm arms wrapped around each other. Someone would break into a miners’ work song, or a victory chant from the pits, and one by one, everyone would join in. No stares or muttering around him; no one asking pointedly, “So, do _you_ actually know this one, Mirage?” Only the song and the blood and the hot joy that felt like it was expanding out of his plating, swelling to the size of a whole world. And then he would wake up, and go back to patrolling the silent corridors of Autobot HQ, and make himself small so that he didn’t upset anyone.

 

_Mirage dreamed he was an Autobot, sometimes. It was so vivid; the moment before he flicked the switch to trigger the explosion, the moment when the world was still holding its breath. The way his optics flickered up, uncertain, hungry, and met the optics of his partner on the mission, who held his gaze and winked. The warm, trusting hand in his as they ran, and the perverse thrill of the flames practically lapping at his back. And then, afterwards, half a dozen agents companionably draped over one another, sipping fuel, tending scrapes, humming wordless reassurance. And then he would wake up, and go back to policing the private little corner he’d carved out of the Empire, and watching the more ambitious of his allies just as narrowly as he knew Megatron was watching him._

 

The breaking point came when one of the most respected generals of his faction came after Mirage and beat him into a coma, scraping his Autobrand off his chest just before Mirage passed out and screaming at him that he didn’t deserve to wear it. And Ironhide was sorry, after, of course he was. He hadn’t meant it. He’d been angry about other things, other truths he wasn’t ready to face.

 

Other things, and he’d vented them all on Mirage, because Mirage didn’t matter.

 

(He still stayed. Mirage was loyal, even if no one else believed that.)

 

_The breaking point came when the second-in-command of the Decepticon rebellion touched down in the remains of an alien city they’d just annihilated from orbit, and wrinkled his nose. Starscream surveyed the smoking wreckage under his heels. “Shabby, isn’t it?” he remarked, in exactly the same tone Mirage’s old friends from the Towers would have used to complain about a disappointing garden party._

 

_This was what they’d become, the uprising of the dispossessed – another set of lords and masters, looking down from on high on the world beneath. And Mirage was still at the top of the tower, still as privileged and frustrated and guilty as ever._

 

_(He still stayed. Mirage was a Decepticon, and no one could take that away from him.)_

 

He felt nauseous listening to Getaway oh-so-delicately twist his spider-silk around Tailgate, but he swallowed it down and let Getaway use the bar, _his_ bar that was supposed to be his retirement from all of this shadow-war bullshit. Compared to what he’d done for the Autobots over the eons, it was such a small thing, after all.

 

_He felt his spark in his throat when Megatron asked him to lead the final assault: choose an elite team, anyone he wished, and take down the Prime once and for all. The price Mirage demanded was high, and his negotiation ruthless – he had a reputation to maintain. But he was always going to say yes. Mirage couldn’t resist being part of something bigger, even after all this time. And when Optimus begged for mercy, declared that he knew Mirage wasn’t a killer, Mirage screamed that Optimus didn’t know what he was._

 

He died trying to make peace _he died trying to end a war_ one swing of Star Saber’s sword _one shove from_ _Optimus Prime,_ _into the tube, crackling with trans-dimensional energy and Mirage –_

 

**And Mirage wakes up.**

 

**He’s standing in a corridor. It doesn’t seem that death should be a corridor.**

 

**There’s a portal, and outside, stars. A ship, then. He turns slowly to take it in, catches sight of his own plating: the red Autobot badge gleaming on his chest. That’s… wrong.**

 

**The buzzing in his head clears, solidifying into the low murmur of voices. It takes him a moment to accept that they’re not coming through his audials, but somewhere in the back of his mind. The words are indistinct; he thinks, perhaps, that they’re not really words at all, but rather – _impressions,_ as if these four alien presences are parts of himself piping up, like hunger or anger or love. He tries to tune into each in turn. Two of them uncertain, frightened but determined, as if gearing up for battle. One is calculating, and when he turns his attention to it, he can feel the keen edge of its interest turning to him in response; he pushes away from it hastily. And one is… familiar.**

 

**Optimus Prime is in his head, somehow.**

 

**Mirage is still standing, struck, when a pair of figures round the corner and his jaw drops further. An Autobot he remembers dying early in the war – what was his name? Hot Shot? Hot Rod? - is deep in conversation with Megatron himself.**

 

**Mirage stumbles backwards. Megatron casts a glance over him, but doesn’t seem to register him; and he wonders, briefly, if he’s got his invisibility mod on without realising, but Hot Rod is gaping at him and says, “ _Mirage?_ How… You’re alive?”**

 

“ **Apparently.” Mirage gives his most dazzling smile.**

 

**Oh, this is going to be fun.**


	11. Atomizer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just for a moment, Atomizer dreamed he could be something different.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little one-sided (?) Brainstorm/Atomizer.

The worst thing about being on the _Lost Light_ was being there alone.

 

Granted, Atomizer had known that was part of the deal when Prowl gave him the assignment. And he’d objected at the time. _I’m an assassin, Boss. I don’t do undercover work, and I sure as hell don’t do it long-term._

 

_Needs must, Atomiser,_ had been all that Prowl said. Atomizer had grimaced under his mask. It had been no secret within Spec Ops that their ranks were dangerously depleted. Some operatives had been on deep-cover assignments for years, who even knew where; others had told Prowl to his face that now that the war was over, they were out of the spying game. Prowl had railed and bribed and pleaded, but he was still down a number of agents. And it made sense that he’d need a spy more than an assassin right now.

 

_What if I get caught?_ Atomizer had asked, and Prowl had responded, _Caught doing what? It’s not like you’re spying on the other faction. I’m Autobot second-in-command; I’m well within my rights to send someone along to keep an optic on Rodimus and his minions._

 

_But they don’t know that’s what I’m there to do._

 

_Of course not._ And Prowl had sent him on his way.

 

It wasn’t that Atomizer wasn’t used to solo assignments; he was good at working alone. He’d once spent six months in a single hiding spot, waiting for the opportunity to make the killshot. But solitude wasn’t the same as being the only agent on a ship full of people. And fate seemed determined to keep him that way. By the time he heard that the Duobots were (accidentally) onboard, they were (accidentally) dead. He did get a shock when Skids turned up, but Skids didn’t even recognise him. Atomizer could hardly run up and demand, _Skids? Hey, where have you been? And where’s your other half? I thought you two were on a mission_ together?

 

Even if he’d wanted to know. And he didn’t. Because that was the real problem with being on the _Lost Light_ alone: Atomizer was starting to like it.

 

With no way to contact Cybertron and no partner or handler to keep him in line, Atomizer found that other things began to crowd out the task of gathering information for a distant boss. Nights at Swerve’s stretched out longer, and he stopped picking his table based on eavesdropping distance from the command crew, and started sitting with his new friends, instead. He still kept up a log book of what he learned, but the later entries tended not to be exhaustively catalogued rumours and innuendos so much as tipsy fragments like, “Fort Max leg guns” and “Bob likes antenna skritches!!”.

 

He got into marksmanship contests with Whirl. He redecorated the captain’s quarters, and thoroughly enjoyed doing it, and didn’t even think to plant a bug until it was too late. He got himself roped into testing Brainstorm’s latest inventions; those were his favourite times, less for the tests and more for the way they’d drape themselves over lab benches with a bottle of engex afterwards, giddy with success or even giddier with the triumph of having escaped when a failed device exploded. Atomizer didn’t talk much. He liked listening to Brainstorm. Even more, he liked the way Brainstorm’s voice would sometimes trail off, and his pretty gold optics come to rest, warm and curious, on Atomizer’s…

 

And then Luna-1 happened.

 

Atomizer dragged himself up off the floor, the terrible weight on his chest (the killswitch, though he wouldn’t know it until later) abruptly lifted. As the static cleared from his vision, he cycled a deep, shuddering ventilation, then another. He’d been so sure he was about to die, and now –

 

He stumbled into the corridor. He had to find Brainstorm and make sure he was all right. He had to find Brainstorm and _tell him how he felt;_ peace had made him too complacent, as if they were guaranteed all the time in the world. He straightened up and took the next corner at speed, practically sprinting down the corridor that led past the shuttle bay.

 

That’s when he heard the voice, and his fuel iced over in his lines.

 

“Gosh, you landed on your feet here, Scout. This is one gorgeous ship.” The tone was sweet, playful, even. It reminded Atomizer vividly of missions he’d been on, lying in wait and listening through his comm link as that same voice teased and flirted, slowly drawing the target forward into Atomizer’s crosshairs.

 

Steeling himself, he looked around the door frame into the shuttle bay. There was Brainstorm – safe and sound, thank frag – and there was the captain, and Magnus, and there was Skids, and –

 

A pair of sharp blue optics met Atomizer’s. This time, there was no confusion. He knew he’d been recognised. He knew he’d been _caught._ Getaway’s optics crinkled endearingly at the corners, and he winked at Atomizer.

 

_This is Autobot Special Operations,_ Atomizer remembered Prowl saying, long ago. _Death will not release you._


	12. Past of Megatron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Megatron discovers a reminder of his old life in the pits of Kaon - and possibly the beginnings of a new life, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set towards the beginning of Megatron: Origin. Very light mentions of violence, nothing explicit.

“Our team’s up after the next bout. Ya ready?”

 

“I hardly think -” Megatron began.

 

Rumble shook his head. “Not sure that’s your problem, Boss, if you don’t mind me sayin’. Your problem is, you think too much. It’ll be fine, you’ll see.” And he strolled off to find his brother, leaving Megatron sitting on a makeshift bench below an illegal fighting pit, staring at his hands and wondering whether he could really do this. True, when he’d smashed his fist into that Senate enforcer and felt plating buckle beneath his fingers, felt the warmth of living fuel spatter over his face, it seemed to awaken something in him; but to take on a lackey of the Senate in the heat of the moment was one thing. To walk calmly into a gladiatorial arena and hurt a complete stranger, possibly kill him – that was something else.

 

In the tense quiet, Megatron could hear someone humming. Then singing, very softly:

 

_Rain fall sharp, and the mist rise cold,_

_And the foreman come down for his purple gold,_

_He’ll take it from your cart, or he’ll take it from your lines,_

_Or he’ll take it from your spark, ’cause you’re married to the mines._

 

Megatron rose without really meaning to, and followed the sound until he stood over a spindly bot with a drill arm that reminded him, for a painful moment, of Impactor. “Where were you a miner?” Megatron murmured.

 

The bot started. “Uh – Luna-2. Before the energon started drying up. You?”

 

“Messatine. Much the same.” He sat down a little ways down the bench, giving the stranger some space. “We had the same song. Only… some of us came up with a variation, on the chorus.”

 

“Yeah?” The bot seemed grateful for the distraction, and turned towards Megatron. “You remember it?”

 

“Oh yes.” Megatron hummed deep in his throat, finding his pitch. Then, in a voice a little rusted with disuse, he began to sing.

 

_Rain fall sharp, and the moon rise blue,_

_No purple gold without me and you,_

_Take your axe, take your hammer, meet the foreman at the door,_

_Tell him we ain’t married to the mines no more!_

 

The song began in silence, but by the time Megatron was halfway through, there were a few mutters, here and there; whispers of, “Mmm-hmm,” or, “Right on,” though their owners kept their faces turned away. By the third line, a few smiles were breaking out, and when Megatron finished, he lifted his head to find half the room looking at him, grins on their faces.

 

“Sing it again, miner,” someone called.

 

Megatron obliged, and this time, a few other voices joined in. The third time, most of the bots in the room were singing, and the rest were stamping along with the beat; and when Megatron roared out, “Take your axe, take your hammer, meet the SENATE at the door!” cheers broke out.

The whole crowd chorused back, _“Tell ’em we ain’t married to the mines no more!”_

 

“Boss?”

 

Megatron turned. Rumble was grinning in the doorway, but all he said was, “We’re up.”

 

“Hey, miner!” a voice shouted after him as Megatron turned to leave. “What’s your name?”

 

“Megatron.” And with that, Megatron of Tarn entered the arena for his very first gladiatorial match.

 

He didn’t say, “With an R.” He didn’t say, “As in neutron.” But for once, he didn’t have to, because no one got it wrong. When he won, the waiting fighters started chanting, and the audience took it up in turn: “ _Meg-a-tron! Meg-a-tron!”_

 

And Megatron – always thinking – began to see the shape of something forming, in the faces and the voices and the fuel-slick sands beneath his feet.


	13. Skids

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A flashback to Skids's time as one of Shockwave's Outliers. Some days, death-defying rebellion against the system doesn't go exactly according to plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based on a headcanon I developed ages ago about Shockwave's more scandalous methods of protest. :) Mirage is never confirmed as one of Shockwave's Outliers, but given his invisibility powers, it's a reasonable leap to make.

Well. At least Shockwave thought it was funny.

 

“I can hear you giggling in there,” Skids complained to the wall at his back.

 

There was a quiet snort, quickly smothered, from the next holding cell. “I’m sorry, Skids. I’m not laughing at you.”

 

“You’re just laughing in my vicinity.” Skids drummed his fingers on the uncomfortably narrow bench. Somehow, it was easier to stay annoyed with Shockwave when he didn’t have those big, sympathetic blue optics gazing down into his own.

 

“Yes, exactly!”

 

“At something I did.”

 

A pause. Then, softly, “Forgive me. I really do appreciate what you were trying to do, Skids. And I’m sorry that it’s led you to share my predicament.”

 

“Oh, I knew getting arrested was a risk.” Skids leaned his head back against the wall, wondering if Shockwave was doing the same on the other side. “It was supposed to be a solidarity protest; it’s not like we could really show solidarity if we weren’t willing to go through the same thing you were. I just didn’t expect to wind up a laughing stock, is all.”

 

It had seemed so noble when Shockwave did it. He’d stood up in front of the Senate and half of Iacon’s news media, and declared, “ _We are all people!_ Senator and miner, Councillor and ‘disposable’ alike, we are more than automatons. We dream, and laugh, and cry, and love – yes, love, even if my _esteemed_ colleague Sentinel is flinching from the word right now! He’d rather see Cybertronians kill each other than share a gift of innermost energon with a sick loved one! Well, I say to you that this planet is sick, and I –” and here he’d opened his chest plating, baring his spark for the whole world to see, to gasps and cries of outrage from the Senate floor – “I love my world! I love its people! Behold my gift -”

 

Shockwave had gotten no further before three Senators had tackled him bodily to the ground, smashing the bottled he’d been about to fill with his own innermost energon. He’d promptly been arrested for public obscenity and indecent exposure, at the behest of Nominus Prime himself (though it was obvious that Sentinel and his coterie had been whispering in Nominus’s audial). Shockwave merely smiled and went quietly, confident that the scandal would ensure his message got coverage from one end of Cybertron to the other.

 

That was when Skids had had An Idea.

 

A protest over Shockwave’s imprisonment, to boost attention further and, hopefully, help hasten his release. He’d imagined all of Shockwave’s students standing firm opposite the prison, arm-in-arm, baring their sparks in imitation of their mentor and making a symbolic gift of innermost energon to Shockwave and to all Cybertron’s people. Thanks to the news crew Skids had convinced to come along, it would surely be a shining moment in the struggle for equality.

 

“Perhaps you’d best talk me through what happened,” urged Shockwave gently.

 

“Well, to start with, I could only get two of the students to join me. It would have been three, Mirage wanted to – Primus, I shouldn’t have sent him home,” Skids moaned.

 

“Why did you?”

 

Skids almost snapped at his teacher, but then he recognised that specific tone in Shockwave’s voice. It wasn’t reprimanding; it was testing. It was the tone that meant Shockwave knew the answer, but wanted to see what Skids came up with on his own.

 

“Because of the news cameras. Because then _that_ would have been the story. ‘Scion of Aristocratic House Arrested for Public Indecency’.” Skids paused. “‘Again.’”

 

“Just so.”

 

“But the cameras were the problem, in the end. Not only did they mean we couldn’t have Mirage, but they scared off most of the other students. It was just me, Windcharger, and Glitch, which already looked a little ridiculous. And then Windcharger got cold feet. Just took one look at the camera and dropped my arm like I had a rust infection. ‘I can’t do this,’ he said.”

 

“Well, we can’t blame him. It takes a certain kind of nerve to be at the centre of public attention. Not everyone has an appetite for it. So, that left the two of you...”

 

“Yeah, and when Windcharger quit – well. Glitch panicked.”

 

There was a long, drawn-out ventilation on Shockwave’s side of the wall. _“Oh._ And you were still holding his arm. _”_

 

Skids nodded miserably, even though Shockwave couldn’t see it. “Moment of truth, and I couldn’t open my chest plate. It was completely frozen. And then _everything_ froze, and I couldn’t move at all. Which just made him panic harder. The enforcers from outside the prison started running over, so he tried to drag me away, which – you can picture how well that went, and then Windcharger grabbed my other arm to help, but that meant he got hit by Glitch’s power, too and _seriously I can_ _hear you_ _._ ”

 

“I’m -” Shockwave valiantly tried to turn a snicker into a cough. “Forgive me, Skids.”

 

Skids sighed. “It was chaos. I had to tell them to just leave me and run. Even the enforcers didn’t know what was going on: their weapons were on the fritz, reporters were yelling, camera drones were just dropping out of the sky –”

 

“Wait. Are you telling me Glitch’s power took down equipment he wasn’t even touching? He’s never been able to do that before!”

 

“Well, I’m glad _you’ve_ got some shiny new data to study! Obviously, this humiliation has all been worth it! I just –” Skids’s voice caught. “I just wanted to do something to make a difference, for once.”

 

The silence that followed was so profound that Skids imagined he could hear the scuffle of the guards patrolling three floors below.

 

Then, Shockwave said, “You do, Skids. Every day you work alongside me – and learn, and challenge yourself, and defy the system that would squeeze you into a little box. I can understand why you’d look at me and believe that everything important has to be flashy, but it doesn’t – the _most_ valuable work is always done beneath the surface. Do you understand?”

 

“I… I suppose so.”

 

“Good. Because I want you, of all my students, to understand.” Shockwave’s voice was like a physical thing, wrapping around him. “I’m proud of you, Skids. I always will be.”

 

Skids opened his mouth, but couldn’t find the words to respond before a guard rapped on the door. “Hey! Skids of Nova Cronum! Get up; you’ve made bail.”

 

***

 

The rest of the guards watched curiously as Skids was signed out of custody. It probably wasn’t every day that a Towers noble, a minibot, and a nervous-looking empurata victim turned up together to spring a trainee theoretician out of jail.

 

“Does the bail money I just put up buy me the right to lord this over you forever?” Mirage purred, throwing an arm around Skids’s shoulders and steering him deftly outside.

 

“Hey, if I hadn’t barred you from the protest in the first place, _you’d_ be the one in jail right now,” Skids grumbled, but he put his arm around Mirage in turn. “All the same – thanks. For this, and for offering to stand with us.”

 

Mirage was suddenly finding it hard to meet Skids’s optics. “Well. You know me. Can’t get enough of the limelight.”

 

Skids smiled, and leaned in to whisper right against Mirage’s audial, “One day, you’re going to get sick of pretending not to be as good as you are.” Then he raised his head to say more loudly, “Shockwave says hi, by the way.”

 

“How is he? Are they treating him all right?” Windcharger asked eagerly. Skids spent the next half hour answering his and Mirage’s questions, and was so absorbed in the conversation that it took until they reached the Academy for him to realise that Glitch hadn’t said a word. Skids hung back and caught Glitch’s optic as Mirage and Windcharger went inside. As soon as the two of them were alone, Glitch blurted out, “Skids, I’m _so sorry,_ I –”

 

Skids put a firm hand on his shoulder, which seemed to shock Glitch into shutting up. “Not your fault. You were brave back there, and the rest wasn’t your fault. We’re good, you and me.” Then he turned and followed his friends inside, not noticing the way Glitch’s wide, longing optic followed him until he disappeared.


	14. Brainstorm & Perceptor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Set during the finale of "Everlasting Voices". Post-mutiny, Rodimus isn't the only one Perceptor wants to beg for forgiveness.

Brainstorm got almost to the door of the medbay when he heard a voice behind him. He couldn’t quite make out the words, but he’d know those soft, liquid tones anywhere.

 

“What’s that, Percy?” he asked, turning a little more eagerly than he’d planned.

 

Perceptor struggled to pull himself up on his elbows, then fell back, his vents cycling hard. As Brainstorm approached, he managed a flicker of a smile. “I said, that makes twice, now.”

 

“Twice what?” Primus, but Perceptor looked ragged, the deathly grey of his sparkeater form still clinging to the edges of his armour, even as it faded from his face. Impulsively, Brainstorm reached out a hand and laid the back of it against Perceptor’s forehead. It was cool to the touch. He wasn’t sure what that meant, of course – he was a genius, not a medic – and he was starting to surreptitiously try and catch Velocity’s optic when Perceptor reached up and grasped Brainstorm’s hand in his.

 

“Twice that you’ve been right, and I’ve been a fool.”

 

“I’ve been right more than _twice,_ ” Brainstorm sniped back automatically, before his processor caught up with his mouth. “You’re not a fool.”  


“I have been. First the fabric of time, and then the… the mutiny.” Perceptor sighed. “What you must think of me.”

 

Brainstorm’s processor was reeling. A tiny part of him was perversely glad, floating on the knowledge that Perceptor cared so much about how Brainstorm saw him; but that feeling was swamped by the wave of panic at the grief on Perceptor’s face.

 

“Oh, hey, no.” Brainstorm tightened his fingers in Perceptor’s. “Listen, Aid and the others told us what Getaway was doing to the crew, with Sunder. You probably don’t even remember much -”

 

“I remember how frustrated I’d become with Rodimus. After Overlord. After how he spoke to you, at your trial.”

 

“I remember you applauding for me.”

 

Perceptor’s gaze darted away for a moment. “You were right to stand up to them. And Megatron, on top of all that – acting as though he’d changed, turning on the charm, and then lashing out the moment things didn’t go his way, I… I couldn’t take it.” He glanced up again at Brainstorm, uncertainly, almost shyly. “When Getaway approached me, I remember saying yes.” When Brainstorm hesitated, Perceptor took a shuddering ventilation and went on, “Remove Rodimus as captain and get Megatron off the ship, that’s what he promised. I never imagined for a moment that it would mean you going with them. And even when I thought that you’d left of your own free will, something felt – wrong. I missed you, Brainstorm.”

 

Brainstorm’s wings lowered from their position up around his ears, as a tight knot in his spark slowly loosened. “Of course you did! I’m a certified delight.” He brought Perceptor’s hand to his own cheek, and nuzzled against it. “Plus, we’re –”

 

“Simpatico.” Perceptor was smiling, at last.


	15. Firestar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Firestar's heard it her entire function.

She’s heard it her entire function.

 

“Firestar is great, but...”

 

It still makes her flinch, because she knows what’s coming. By now, as soon as she hears that half-hearted opening, she can practically recite the rest.

 

“But don’t you find her a bit _much_?”

 

By the time Firestar enrolled at the academy, she was a head taller than most of the bots around her. More than that, she felt – outsized, in every direction. Her plating was a screaming crimson that looked vulgar next to her classmates’ ethereal shades. Her limbs were so long that she’d more than once clocked a fellow dancer in the head during practice. Even if she tried to hunch in on herself and keep her voice low, she was still the biggest, loudest, flashiest thing in miles, and on those occasions where she forgot herself and laughed out loud – huge and piercing – she could see people up and down the length of the corridor wince.

 

And so one day, still in her first year, Firestar snapped.

 

If she can never escape being _too much,_ then surely it’s better to be _much too much_ on purpose. She coaxed her flame as big and bright as it would go, chose paints that highlighted her brash colours instead of toning them down. She spoke to carry and laughed to be heard in the next district. She made up her own dance moves, and decided that anyone who couldn’t keep up could get the frag out of her way.

 

Unsurprisingly, Firestar’s new approach gained her attention, and not all of it was negative – far from it. But she still struggled when it came to finding an amica. Too much with style was still too much. What _did_ surprise her, though, was Nautica’s eleventh-hour acceptance of her Oath of Constancy. Clever, careful little Nautica. Firestar felt like a steamroller next to her. Nautica got upset at being teased, and turned sullen when Firestar tried to encourage her. Everything Firestar said seemed to dim the light in Nautica’s optics, and make her wilt; and the further she withdrew, the harder Firestar would run after her, bumbling into her space, all big limbs and big voice and outsized needs.

 

They were ill-suited from the beginning, and yet it still stung when Nautica – so neat and precise and so very, very smart – found a friend just as perfectly delicate and brilliant in Velocity, and the two of them ran off and left Firestar alone.

 

Reconnecting with Nautica now, after all this time, is even harder.

 

“And what about you?” Firestar gushes. “Still playing with engines?” She gives her amica a wink.

 

“Still a fully qualified quantum mechanic, yes,” Nautica murmurs in that low, lovely voice of hers. Her smile looks like it hurts.

 

They manage about five minutes’ conversation. Separated for over a year, they have no more to say to one another than that. Nautica slips away, blending into the crowd in the way Firestar never could; Firestar dances, schmoozes, tries to smile. Flirts with a couple of Nautica’s cute crewmates, only for them both to desert her in short order (although she forgives them more easily after finding out about the charisma parasites – poor guys, and also, _ewwww_ ).

It isn’t until they’re barricaded in the _Vis Vitalis_ medbay, with Nautica by her side, cool and commanding even as she’s hurling improvised firebombs at alien monsters, that Firestar really admits it to herself.

 

_It’s not that we can’t connect. She’s on a different level. She always has been._

 

It hurts, making the decision to renounce the bond – but not for the reasons she’d imagined. After everything Firestar’s seen, after barely escaping with her life, the prospect of everyone back home looking down their noses at her doesn’t seem so terrifying. Solus’s Forge, she should be used to _that_ by now.

 

It’s giving up Nautica that hurts.

 

And that’s why, when Nautica looks her in the optic and says, “Let’s keep going,” Firestar suddenly feels like her spark is about to burst out of her plating. She grabs her amica, and Nautica goes happily, hugging her tight. And when Firestar says, “You were on _fire_ today,” and then cringes, wondering how Nautica’s going to hear it – whether it sounds like _you were good because you were like me, for once –_ Nautica doesn’t wilt, doesn’t pull away.

 

She smiles.

 


	16. Necroworld

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What's Chromedome been keeping from his husband all these years - and why?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based on a revelation from one of James Roberts' recent script commentaries about the secret Prowl tried to blackmail Chromedome with in season 1. If you prefer not to be spoiled for the scripts, be warned!

Chromedome never found the right moment.

 

By all rights, the right moment _should_ have been about two seconds after the charming, hurting, brave mech he’d just met in a relinquishment clinic told him the name of the husband he was trying to find. Chromedome could have spilled the beans then. It would have been… simpler. And perhaps Rewind would have wanted to be his friend, still, if nothing more; perhaps Chromedome could have had him in his life, even as Rewind waited for his dashing conjunx to return to him.

 

But Chromedome’s work for the New Institute was beyond top secret, and nothing was more so than the identity of undercover agents. A breach, if it came to light, could be treated as treason – treason by Chromedome, definitely, and possibly even by whoever he’d passed the information to. So he listened, and sympathised, and made plans to meet up with Rewind again, and absolutely did not say _oh, yeah, your husband is a spy._

 

The real right moment should have been sometime after Chromedome got to know Rewind well enough to trust him (and to believe that, for Chromedome’s sake if not his own, Rewind would be willing to pursue any inquiries subtly, and not go storming into Prowl’s office demanding answers), but, ideally, before Chromedome and Rewind became a couple. Definitely before the secret had dragged on for so long that there had surely ceased to be any chance of forgiveness. And yet there was always some doubt that stood in the way of telling him. What if, in trying to find out where Dominus was operating, Rewind accidentally blew his cover? What if Rewind was more fragile than he seemed, and the realisation that his conjunx had deliberately abandoned him – even in noble cause – was enough to send him spiralling? What if… what if…

 

… _what if he leaves me?_

 

And time went on, until keeping the secret was unforgivable and revealing it impossible. Until the very thought of Rewind hating him made Chromedome feel like his world was ending. Until he found himself pinning down his screaming ex-boyfriend so he could rip the secret out of his head, just to protect himself a little longer.

 

Chromedome holds Rewind tight, and stares down at the screen, where a little block of white text on an anonymous blue background states: _Dominus Ambus. Status: Deactivated._

 

It’s a reprieve both unexpected and undeserved. A treacherous little part of Chromedome sighs in relief – _He’s gone, we don’t have to spend all our time chasing Rewind’s true love all over the galaxy anymore, and Rewind never has to know what I knew –_ but he meets Rewind’s gaze and he can feel that part die. Rewind looks destroyed. A light has gone out of him, and it makes Chromedome ache.

 

So he offers to make it right in the only way he can. “I can erase the last few hours and we can go back to not knowing.” Even though Chromedome knows Rewind will most likely turn him down (and he does), the offer still takes everything he’s got.

 

And then Nightbeat – beautiful, brilliant, infuriating goddamn Nightbeat – goes and discovers that Dominus isn’t dead.

 

For one brief moment, it looked like Chromedome got to have this. That he got to have Rewind, back from the dead, reconciled with him in spite of everything; that he got to keep him, forever. Chromedome can barely stand the idea of restarting that ticking clock, the one that’s spent their whole relationship counting down to the moment when Rewind finds out what really happened to Dominus Ambus – and finds out that Chromedome kept it from him.

 

But he looks at Rewind, who’s giddily hugging Nightbeat, and it isn’t even a choice. Chromedome could never deny him something that makes him this happy. And if Chromedome is going to lose Rewind one way or the other when they find Dominus, then at least… well.

 

At least they have all the moments until then.


	17. Scavengers Revisited/Nickel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today's prompt was either "Scavengers Revisited" or "Nickel", so I thought, why not do both? Set post-series.

Gritting her teeth, Nickel pulled herself up the last few inches towards the summit. She was just getting a handhold at the very top of her ascent when a hand seized her ankle in a grip like a vise, and she gasped.

 

“Get _off_!” she snarled, kicking at the enemy attempting to clamber up after her.

 

“Ha! Fat chance! If I die, you die with me!”

 

“Wanna bet?” Nickel’s scrabbling fingers finally lighted on her gun, and she whirled, levelling it at her pursuer’s head. “I’ll see you in the Pit, you piece of slag!”

 

She fired…

 

… and Misfire’s head snapped back, his arms flailing as he plummeted to his doom.

 

He fell for a foot and a half and landed on the carpet with a thunk, Nickel’s suction-cup dart stuck to his forehead. A second later, he began to writhe and scram. “AHHH, no! Not the smelting pool! Oh, I am burning in the burning smelting pool of smelting! Woe is me argggllleeeegaaahhhh...”

 

“Come on,” Krok said, strolling over and offering Misfire a hand up. “Come join Crankcase and me in the Afterspark.”

 

Misfire cheerfully let himself be pulled to his feet. “I tell you, that was a stroke of genius Nickel had to combine it with Shoot Shoot Bang Bang, I mean –”

 

“Whoa!” Nickel threw herself to the side, narrowly avoiding a dart that had come at her out of nowhere. Glancing up, she saw Spinister dangling upside-down from a vent, lining up his dart gun for a second shot. “Where did _you_ come from?”

 

He appeared to give this question serious thought. “Kaon.” There was a further pause. “The ventilation system.”

 

“Well, prepare to be sent straight back there!” Nickel aimed her own gun. “Kaon _or_ the ventilation system, I don’t really –”

 

In the commotion of the game, they’d all missed the gentle beep of the external security system being overridden, and the surprisingly stealthy tread of the mech who’d done so. The first warning any of the Scavengers received, therefore, was a delicate cough from the W.A.P.’s entranceway.

 

There, outlined by the weak planetary light that spilled through the door, was a massive winged shadow, its four red optics gleaming.

 

Fulcrum squeaked _._ Krok jumped in front of him, arms outstretched protectively, which might have been more intimidating had he not been bristling with suction-cup darts like a neon orange porcupine. Grimlock growled.

 

Deathsaurus stepped forward and cocked his head challengingly. Nickel glanced around her, taking in the darts, her own perch atop the bridge’s main scanner bank, her crewmates clinging to every available surface.

 

With as much dignity as she could muster, she explained, “The floor’s a smelting pit.”

 

One side of Deathsaurus’s mouth turned up. “Well, why didn’t you say so?” He flared his wings – Fulcrum and Misfire both backpedalled hastily – and leapt, landing gracefully on the nav console opposite Nickel.

 

She smiled. “Thanks for answering my call.” There was a squawk of outrage from Fulcrum, and the pitch of Grimlock’s growl dropped even lower; without taking her optics off Deathsaurus’s, Nickel murmured to them, “It’s okay, guys.”

 

“Of course. We don’t leave anyone behind.” Deathsaurus reached out an arm to her. “Ready to come home, Captain?”

 

“Maybe. But first, we have to talk. About possible alliances.” She cast a sideways glance at Krok, who was listening warily. “And I think it’s time you weren’t just second-in-command.”

 

Deathsaurus’s optics narrowed. “What did you have in mind?”

 

“How do you feel about the title ‘co-captain’?”


	18. Getaway's Machinations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet another chapter where I meant to go super-dark, and then this happened. :) Just a day in the life of two mutineers, and Atomizer is starting to see a few similarities between his old boss and his new one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's VERY slightly suggestive, pushing it more into the PG range (though nothing is shown on the page).

“You know,” said Atomizer in tones of disgust, “you are _exactly_ like Prowl.”

Getaway batted his optics, which shouldn’t even have been possible. “Devastating good looks? Brain the size of a galaxy?”

“No, you – wait, devastating _what now_?” Atomizer shook his head sharply. “ _No_. You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just because the Boss and I don’t let our feelings get in the way of duty.” He finished his drink in one last gulp. “Sometimes, when you’re the only one who can see what needs to be done –”

“Not that, either,” Atomizer cut in. “Frag, ruthlessness I’m used to. I mean –” and here he have an involuntary little shudder – “the puns.”

“… what.”

“Look, I can take the idea of testing the crew’s loyalties one by one. But I swear, if you finish one more interrogation with a terrible pun on that person’s name, I am _out_!”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on. You said us getting Mainframe onside was such an achievement that we should _frame_ it. You said Blaster’s answer was music to your ears! I thought we’d gotten away without you coming up with one for Perceptor, but then I made the mistake of saying that out loud and you just gave me that look and you said –” Atomizer slipped into a rough impression of Getaway’s accent. “‘How _perceptive_ of you, Atomizer!’ And don’t get me started on the fifteen solid minutes of puns after we talked to Rung. Half of it was just riffs on his nickname being Eyeballs.”

“So?”

“ _His nickname is not Eyeballs, Getaway!”_

“Now you sound like Skids.” Getaway’s optics narrowed.

“Skids wants you to stop getting it wrong because he adores Rung. I just can’t stand that you’re still doing it, when you could have figured out your mistake ages ago through the difficult and complex process of _looking at his damn face_! _Primus_ , Getaway.”

Getaway slurped at his straw for a second before realising the cube was empty. Then he put it down, and didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. “‘Adore’ is a little strong, don’t you think?”

Atomizer stared at him. “You’re jealous.”

“Pfft.”

“You are! What’s more, you’re _compromised_.”

Getaway slammed a hand down on the table and leaned in, his optics flaring. “You take that back, Agent.”

“If it’s not true, then ask him.”

“I’ll ask him when it’s the right time. I’m picking my moment – which is my prerogative as mission lead, don’t forget that.” He turned to scan the room, as if looking for their next target, as if Atomizer wasn’t worth his time.

Because he had asked Skids. Time and again, he’d asked. _What would you do if someone staged a coup?_ He’d asked after long, heartfelt conversations about The Cause. After enough drinks to kill off Skids’s inhibitions, and hopefully wring the truth out of him. After he’d seen Megatron fight with Skids right in front of him. After… _after_ , lying next to Skids in the dark.

And no matter how much care Getaway took to lay the groundwork, the answer was always, infuriatingly, the same. _I couldn’t let that happen._

Blank to the back of the neck, and start all over again.

One of these days, yes, he’d have to ask Skids in front of Atomizer, and that answer wouldn’t be possible to erase. But not yet.

“Better be soon, _Boss_ ,” Atomizer muttered, as if he could read what Getaway was thinking. “You’re not the only one who’s going to have to give up a friend, you know.”

“He’ll come round. I’ll make sure of it.” Please, Primus, just give him a little more time. “Now look sharp.” Getaway nodded towards the door, where Riptide had just walked into Swerve’s.

Atomizer groaned. “Let me guess. It’s Shark Week?”

“Not bad, not bad.” Getaway tilted his head consideringly, as if tasting a fine engex blend. “Bit of a stretch, though. Best not to overreach. Now, me, I only make puns –”

“Don’t.”

“– that I can _getaway_ with.”

“I hate you so much,” Atomizer told him.


	19. An Orphan at the Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Holiday Special, from a slightly unusual perspective.

They are hungry.

They drifted so long in the void, so _long_. (They do not measure time as such, but they know the vast, indifferent cold of space, and that it had burned almost through them before they found shelter here.) When the prey discovered them, they assumed the least threatening form they could, adapting as they went. Becoming more like the prey.

And it worked. They are safe.

And they are hungry.

And they are… warm?

One of the prey – _this one_ , the one that picked them up and held them, spoke to them – now has them cradled inside its body. One claw rests atop them, soft, despite its weight.

They flow out of their prey-form and investigate, probing the glass and metal that surround them. They are so hungry, and it would be so easy…

Something, something unaccustomed, makes them hesitate before they bite. They do not mark time; but they know that when they eat prey, the prey is gone. And they do not want _this one_ to be gone.

The warmth is good. Perhaps it will do no harm to sleep…

 

***

 

What awakens them is a cooling, all around them.

ThisOne is still and its metal is cold. They are instantly alert, spreading themselves out, prodding and blanketing. Trying to warm it, trying to rouse it. When there is no reaction, they reassume the prey-shape, tiny claw grasping the much larger one imploringly.

“ _Whirl!”_

Bright lights and prey-sounds all around them. They cling on, but prey has them and prey lifts them out of ThisOne’s body.

“Oh, Primus, you poor thing. Here, it’s okaa _aaaahhhhhh_!”

They drop the prey-form and stream back across the prey’s limbs, across the floor, trying to reach ThisOne. They are almost there when a pulse of energy hits them, and then there is only quiet.

They awaken in a prison of glass. They are hungry, and there is food here, infused into the liquid; they eat, but it does not settle them. They swarm fretfully in the tube.

And then something taps the outside. ThisOne’s claw. ThisOne’s optic is peering in at them.

“I’m proud of them.”

They do not understand the words, but there is something in the tone that makes them warm. And without thought, they reach forward, and form a single claw to touch ThisOne back.


	20. Mutiny!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The prompt for this one was "Mutiny!". What I ended up with isn't just about THE mutiny aboard the Lost Light, but about mutiny as an idea. (And Prowl. Prowl is, after all, at the bottom of just about everything. :))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> References to the canon details of Getaway's imprisonment by both Rodimus and Tyrest.

Month after month after month, Getaway hangs in the dark.

Perhaps the dark shifts around him. He would not know; he has no eyes to see. No tongue left to speak. His very spark is caged, and if he so much as fidgets in his shackles, he will die. He tells himself these facts over again in his mind, counting them out like shanix.

He can hear, though. He hears Tailgate run up, pleading for help, before leaving in disgust at Getaway’s silence; and for a sickening moment, Getaway’s spark lurches in a way that makes him think he’s brushed the trembler cage. (He does not hear Sunder, moments later, but he _feels_ him in his head, every sin ripped raw and bare. Getaway whimpers in his throat, no tongue to scream, until Sunder decides he can save this particular morsel for later. Juicy as it is, it’s not going anywhere, and he prefers the pleasures of the hunt.)

He hears Megatron in the darkness one day, weeks later (months?). Though of the Megatron whose speeches Getaway was once ordered to study, there is no trace. Megatron speaks in a strange, stilted voice, stating that while he may be unaware of the specific wrong committed against Getaway during the war, he accepts that the Decepticons – that _he,_ Megatron – must have hurt him. He tells Getaway that he is a pacifist now, and it was Getaway’s scheme that did that, the terror of almost hurting an innocent like Tailgate. He says he hopes that one day they may understand one another, even if forgiveness is impossible.

And Getaway’s hate burns hotter with every word he can’t answer.

Rodimus doesn’t come down at all. Even _Tyrest_ talked to him.

 

_Half a universe away, Prowl is in a cell. The first phase of his plan, too, is in tatters – but as he’s always told his agents, that’s what first phases are for. As he waits, he idly draws patterns with a fingertip in the forcefield keeping him prisoner._

_Doesn’t that hurt? Optimus asks, and Prowl ignores him, because of course it does._

 

Getaway’s hearing, in the absence of every other sense, is especially acute. And if there’s one sound he knows, it’s a lock being opened.

 

_At almost the same moment, Iacon is in chaos, and Rattrap is pelting towards Prowl’s cell, the Enigma of Combination in his mouth. “Here, Boss!”_

 

A set of hands is disabling the trembler cage, and at least four more are lifting Getaway down carefully. It’s so good to feel his limbs snap back into place – to stretch and move. When his optics slowly flare back to life, Getaway could sob.

Thunderclash salutes. “The ship is yours, Captain. Orders?”

Getaway roughly massages the fresh welds at the sides of his jaw, and, in a voice thick with rust, says, “Tell Blaster to open a channel.”

 

_Prowl lifts the Enigma, and the whole world goes white –_

 

***  


It’s a few weeks later, and it feels like a different universe, as Fortress Maximus – with a gentler tone than Prowl would have expected – asks Prowl if he saw Rodimus’s last message.

“I don’t know what that was,” Prowl tells him. “It was… sad.”

It’s only half a lie, because of course, he does know what that was. There was something beautiful and awful in the sequence of events that left Rodimus and his coterie stranded with the DJD, it was… textbook. And Prowl should know. He wrote the textbook.

 _I thought I understood you,_ Optimus told him back in that cell. _I thought you were an open wound._

Yes, Prowl knows very well what happened. And what’s worse, he understands.


	21. DJD - Final Confrontation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An AU based on the events of MTMTE 55 - if things had played out just a bit differently. If Megatron had been a little slower, Tarn a little quicker, or Deathsaurus had made an objectively terrible decision. :) Warning for mention of injuries.

Tarn knows there was no escape, but at least here, at the very end, he will take Megatron down with him. His men are dead. The battlefield is deserted. There is nothing else.

 

“Do it!” he snarls. “At least I’ll die a Decepticon!”

 

Megatron rips the mask from Tarn’s face and seizes him by the throat, lifting him off his feet. That voice that he’s played over and over again, that he’s heard in his dreams, whispers to him one last time.

 

“ _Everything you did was for nothing.”_

 

Just as Tarn’s vision begins to black out, a hand thrusts through the forcefield, gold and red in the spreading gloom, and a voice calls out for Megatron to leave him. Megatron grabs the hand in his. Every ounce of resignation boils off Tarn in a rage. He screams his last, helpless fury as Megatron escapes, leaving his creation to burn.

 

But only for an instant. Because, impossibly, another hand reaches in towards _Tarn._

 

If he’d thought about it a second longer, he might have refused it. But there’s no time. He takes it, and is borne aloft in a rush of dragon wings.

 

***

 

For the second time in his life, Tarn wakes up in a tank of liquid in medbay, feeling like death and staring hazily through the glass at a Deceptibrand.

 

The system registers him regaining consciousness, and the liquid slowly starts to drain, revealing the expressionless face of Deathsaurus. Tarn briefly weighs just staying in the tank.

 

Deathsaurus’s wings are scorched. His plating, all up and down his right side, is a mess of carbon scoring. Tarn feels a stab of shame, and then thinks, _It’s all right; I can ask Vos to –_

 

_Oh._

 

And the shame swamps him. He coughs, and manages to croak out, “Megatron?”

 

Something ugly passes over Deathsaurus’s face. “Gone,” is all he says. Then he turns and stalks towards the door. “I’ll leave you to the medics.”

 

“Wait!” Tarn hits the release and the front of the tank lifts to let him out. “You’re – you’re hurt.”

 

At least that stops Deathsaurus from leaving. “I’m far from the worst. The medical staff is tapped out; they’ll get to me when they get to me.”

 

The next thing Tarn says comes out like a plea. “Why save me?”

 

Deathsaurus still isn’t looking at him. “You’re my crew.”

 

_My crew._ Tarn things of all the troops Deathsaurus poured into that canyon, to their deaths, on Tarn’s orders. He thinks of Kaon’s face, distraught and utterly trusting, and he thinks of Kaon’s blood splattering hot over his arms and mask.

 

In a broken voice, he says, “I don’t…” and then trails off. Deathsaurus rounds on him.

 

“It’s a statement, not a fragging conjunx ritus. We’ll still drop you off at the next spaceport, don’t worry, and you can go chase Megatron across the universe for your rematch. Just – while you’re on this ship, you’re my crew, that’s all.”

 

It’s an unimaginable mercy, and Tarn feels like he’s drowning. He squeezes his optics shut, knowing the mask will hide it… and then remembers that his mask is gone, all his scars bare to the world.

 

“No, I mean I… I don’t deserve it.”

 

“You’ll get no argument from me.”

 

“I was ready to die.”

 

“Get used to disappointment, then.”

 

“What I am trying to do...” Tarn takes a huge, shuddering breath. “Is – thank you.”

 

One side of Deathsaurus’s mouth quirks upwards. “You’re bad at it.”

 

Tarn stares. His breath leaves him in a rush that’s not quite a laugh. Deathsaurus’s gaze cuts away from his, all of a sudden, as if caught doing something he shouldn’t.

 

Tarn steps from the tank, and immediately stumbles, his knees giving under him.

 

“Careful.” Deathsaurus moves closer, but does not touch, until Tarn’s blindly fumbling hand finds and clutches his shoulder. Then he shifts to put an arm around Tarn’s waist. “You just survived an explosion that would have killed most mechs; you need to recharge. There’s empty crew quarters across the hall.”

 

That strikes Tarn as strange, and then he remembers the devastation of the War World’s crew. Most of the ship may well be empty now. He keeps his gaze averted, and Deathsaurus steers him across the empty corridor in a businesslike fashion, depositing him on a clean, cold berth and turning to go.

 

The thought of Deathsaurus leaving the room is suddenly awful, and Tarn blurts out, “What if I wanted to stay?” At the venomous look on Deathsaurus’s face, he hastily adds, “Not to pursue Megatron! Not that.”

 

“In that case, you’ll need to take it up with the captain.”

 

“… what?”

 

“I’m only second-in-command now. Nickel’s in charge.”

 

“ _Nickel?_ ” Tarn’s torn between a joyful burst of _of course, she’s alive, one of my DJD is still alive!_ and a deep confusion. “But… wouldn’t that mean _I’m_ in command? I’m still the senior Justice Division –”

 

Deathsaurus’s voice is like ice. “If you think for a moment that Nickel is captain because she’s _DJD,_ you’ve understood _nothing_.” In the dim light, his fangs flash. “Nickel had the presence of mind to call the retreat when I couldn’t. She’s earned her place.” He looms closer to where Tarn sits motionless on the berth. “Do you know why it mattered to me so much to rescue you? Because it was the first thing I’d done that felt like _me_ since I watched you murder one of your own men in front of me, and I said nothing. I’ve been… weighing lives, deciding whose death is acceptable for the Cause, and that’s everything I hate. That’s Megatron. That’s _you._ ”

 

Tarn quails under Deathsaurus’s glare. He’s sure that it shows in his face, too; Glitch’s ridiculous face, never any good at hiding what he feels. And for a moment, he’s in awe of Deathsaurus. How did an MTO, a beastformer, created only to be a weapon, come to possess such a certain sense of where he begins and ends, when a few words of Megatron’s were enough to dismantle Tarn completely and leave nothing behind?

 

Deathsaurus’s expression softens fractionally, a hint of sadness creeping in. All he says is, “We’ll talk later, Tarn,” before he heads out.

 

_Not Tarn, not anymore,_ he wants to call after Deathsaurus, but he doesn’t know what name to put in its place. Not yet.


	22. Getaway

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's "villain lives AU" week here at Decepticonsensual's, apparently. :) This one is an AU exploring what might happen if Getaway had survived the events of LL 20.
> 
> On the run, Getaway starts to crave the one thing he's never been able to find, even as he's forced it on everyone else: the ability to forget. In the absence of a nudge gun, alcohol in one of the seediest cross-species bars he's ever had the misfortune to visit will have to do. But of all the engex joints in all the world, she had to walk into his...

“Excuse me?”

 

The voice is cultured, nervous, with a hint of an accent that Getaway can’t quite place. It’s also clearly not aimed at him – the speaker is shouting to be heard by the whole crowd crammed into this, the filthiest and most depressing spaceport bar he’s experienced in a long Spec Ops career that has been, if anything, primarily marked by filthy and depressing spaceport bars – so Getaway turns back to studiously trying to inhale an entire cube of Nightmare Fuel in a single slurp.

 

He’s not drunk enough for this. ‘This’ being his life.

 

It’s been four days since Rodimus – ever forgiving, ever magnanimous in victory – carried Getaway out of the _Lost Light’s_ furnace, and Getaway got very close to murdering him for it before the sheer weight of his injuries sent him into stasis lock instead. When he woke, hours later, it was to discover that Rung was God and God was dead and _frag,_ that’s not getting any easier to process, is it?

 

So he stole an evacuation pod while everyone else was distracted.

 

Another daring escape for the legendary escapologist. Yaaay.

 

“Excuse me? Sorry, just – does anyone here know anything about a planet called Rexus V?”

 

_Wow,_ thinks Getaway, in the midst of wondering where the rest of his Nightmare Fuel’s gone. He reaches for the cube and misses. Huh. That might be a clue.

 

“It’s just that we really need information, and, look, I can pay you! Does that help?”

 

Drawn against his will, like someone watching a car crash, Getaway turns and _oh you have got to be kidding him._

 

She’s standing in the middle of the room, one of her hands cupped in front of her mouth like a megaphone and the other waving a paltry stack of shanix. She looks half-terrified as the organics around her murmur and shuffle away, not making optic contact. Getaway himself tugs the hood of his cloak a little closer around his face. The general air of sullen disinterest is rapidly hardening into hostility – and no wonder. Not only could this newcomer not look more suspicious if she had flashing red biolights spelling out _This Is Some Kind Of Trap,_ she’s Cybertronian.

 

He tells himself it’s the empty cube that forces him to get up in the end, but it’s also the fact that her technique just _grates_ on his wires, like a sour note to the audial of a piano tuner.

 

Getaway sidles over to where she’s now propped despondently on the bar. “I honestly can’t tell if you’re an absolutely brilliant distraction, or a terrible spy,” he murmurs, leaning against the bar at his back so that they’re facing in opposite directions. Of course, she immediately turns and asks loudly whether he’s addressing her, which makes him put his head in his (one remaining) hand. “Okay, let me rephrase that, sport – now I can’t tell if you’re a terrible spy, or if you’re _so_ good that you’re just taking the piss.”

 

“Neither!” She shakes her head. “I’m not a spy at all! Oh, sure, stalk and ambush, I’m great at that, but _this_ …” One elegantly clawed hand waves at the bar. “But my commander told me to get information, so I have to try.”

 

“Well, I don’t blame you, it’s your first day, but your commander’s a bloody idiot if you don’t mind my saying.” Getaway plonks his empty cube down on the bar.

 

His companion smiles a little sadly. “He’s actually really smart. I just think he had a bit more faith in my ability to improvise than it deserved.”

 

Something that isn’t just annoyance – something Getaway is resolutely _not_ examining too closely – makes him say, “Okay. What is it you need to know about that planet – Rexus V?”

 

“Location, dominant species, anything unusual in its recent history,” she rattles off. “But… why would you help me?”

 

Getaway nudges back his hood and pushes the scarf covering most of his face down, just a bit. Just enough to give an impression of optics rather than organic eyes. Then he slowly closes one of them in a wink.

 

He takes a few of the shanix she’s been waving around from her hand and buys another drink, then wanders over towards a group of boisterous crew members off a trading vessel from near the Galactic Rim. As he gets close, he scoffs loudly and remarks, “Cybertronians! Five’ll get you ten that one only wants to know where Rexus V is because it’s got that really plush casino, and she wants to take it over. They’re all the same.”

 

A few of them shake their heads and cluck in agreement. One, though, furrows his brow. “Nah, mate, you’re thinking of Rigel VIII. Rexus V is the old university colony.”

 

“That’s Ofsted XVII!” his friend interrupts, slapping him affectionately upside the head.

 

“I know where Ofstead XVII is! Never said there was just _one_ university planet, did I?”

 

“But Rexus V’s the one in the Argon cluster,” Getaway says in a confused tone. “That’s not a school, surely, so far from everything else?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” the organic says glumly, as his crewmates chuckle at him.

 

Another of them leans back, holding the shisha pipe in his tertiary limbs and inhaling deeply. “Ah, I remember when we took that shortcut through the Argon cluster on our way to Troja Major. You’re never going to believe this –” here he turned to Getaway, clearly eager for a new audience – “but you know those legends about star whales? Well, we saw –”

 

“Oh, for Triton’s sake! You did not see a star whale, Kree!”

 

“Did too!”

 

“That wasn’t even the Argon cluster! And the Argon cluster isn’t where Rexus V is, either! What pit-whistler spawned you lot?” One of the crew who’s been silent up to this point finally throws all eight of his arms in the air. “Honestly, it’s like navigating a floating nursery – _here._ ” He takes out the datapad that connects him to his ship’s computer and starts tapping away. “ _This_ is the Argon cluster; and _here_ is Rexus V, alllll the way over here…”

 

“Rexus V?” A uniformed officer from a different ship pauses as she strolls past. “Didn’t the Council slap a travel advisory on that place a few weeks ago? There was that whole earthquake business –”

 

His part done, Getaway leans his masked chin on his gloved hand and listens.

 

***

 

Twenty minutes later, Getaway makes his way out the back door to an alley behind the bar, and hands the other Cybertronian a data slug.

 

“There. Coordinates, and a map. No indigenous life forms; it was a Decepticon mining planet early in the war, but they abandoned it when the ore ran out, and it’s been deep in Galactic Council space for ages. Massive seismic event of unknown origin three weeks ago. All ships have been told to steer clear, and there are GC patrols to enforce it but they’re pretty lax. That do you?”

 

“Yes, oh my goodness!” She takes the slug, laughing incredulously. “You just saved us – I can’t even tell you how much time. We’re on a really vital mission, and this is brilliant. I’m Stardrive, by the way.”

 

Getaway extends his hand and picks one of his old aliases. “Spanner.”

 

“Thank you so much, Spanner. My commander will be so pleased.” She turns the slug in her fingers. “He’s always talking about the importance of information. He’s got this funny saying: ‘The difference between battle and just meteoroid-surfing is the intel that tells you where to aim.’”

 

Getaway feels his engine stall. “He – _what_?”

 

“I would say that I’m glad to see some of my lessons stuck,” drawls a cool voice behind him. “But I imagine they all did, and that’s the problem. Isn’t it… Getaway?”

 

The name ‘Boss’ sticks in Getaway’s throat. Instead, he manages, “ _Prowl?_ ” and turns around.

 

There he is, large as life. Paint job a mess of scars, he stands with his hip cocked to the side and a gun as long as his arm balanced carelessly on his shoulder. One optic is shattered; the other gleams in the dim light. There’s a familiar, dangerous little half-smile on his lips.

 

“We need to talk,” Prowl says. “I’m not sure a decade would do justice to all the things we need to talk about; but we can’t. There’s no time.” He reaches a hand out to Getaway. “The end is coming, and I need you to help me save the universe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For LL readers who don't follow the other comics: Stardrive is an abandoned Cybertronian who was raised by Rom's people, the Solstar Knights. After rediscovering her heritage, she ended up teaming up with Prowl to fight Unicron.


	23. The Functionist Universe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In a universe with no Megatron, no Decepticons, no war, Prowl and Tumbler still ended up as partners... and still ended up falling in love. But the course of true love never did run smooth when you're a cold-constructed couple in a Functionist world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> On the one hand, I realise that one of the great things about Lost Light Fest is that it challenges you to write characters you may never have written before.
> 
> On the other hand, copshipping is embedded deep in my withered heart, so here's a thinly-veiled excuse to explore my favourites in the Functionist universe. :)
> 
> Warnings for violence, state-sponsored violence, and police brutality. Additional (spoilery) warnings in the end notes. Shippy, but entirely PG-rated.

“Have you ever heard of a conjunx ritus?” Tumbler asked Prowl, while the two of them patrolled the barbed-wire fence marking off the cold-constructed slums of Rodion.

 

“Lower your voice,” Prowl hissed. Just because he and Tumbler had remained on the Functionist Council’s good side long enough to earn certain privileges beyond what most cold-constructed bots could aspire to (including the dubious privilege of policing their own) – or rather, just because Prowl had spent millions of years shushing Tumbler and making excuses for him and running interference between him and their superiors, in a desperate attempt to keep them both alive – that didn’t mean that they would be safe if they stepped out of line now. And walls had ears. Any passerby’s optics could be a direct video feed to the inner sanctum of the Council building. “Yes, of course I’ve heard of it. Why?”

 

“Would you ever… ever want that?”

 

“It’s not allowed for the likes of us,” Prowl replied, and that was that.

 

Only it wasn’t.

 

 

_I. The Act of Intimacy_

 

There were cameras in the cells, of course; but it was almost absurdly easy to make sure that they were switched off at strategic moments. In the early days of the Council’s rule, certain enforcers had found it useful when an interrogation was likely to turn physical, or when the Council had tipped them off that a certain prisoner should meet with a little accident before trial. Now that the Council had grown bold, it was a necessity for other enforcers if they wanted to, say, feed disposable prisoners. And sometimes, being able to turn off the cameras on an empty cell was invaluable when privacy was in scant supply in the enforcers’ government-issue, single-person quarters.

 

Tumbler and Prowl made a ritual of it, when they could. They’d bring holovids, or music, the volume turned low; then they’d spoon up on the narrow plank bed and hold each other, just talking softly, like real people with a real life together.

 

Tonight, though, they weren’t talking. A small comm unit beside the bed was broadcasting an underground news broadcast, discussing what was already being called the Nyon Massacre. A few hours before, protestors in Nyon – a vast column made up of bots of every class and alt imaginable – had run directly into riot police blocking them from the city’s Functionist administration building. It was a scene that had played out countless times in recent years, and had always ended the same way. But this time, remarkably, a few of the cops had hesitated to open fire on the crowd. And in response, the Council’s drones had rained down death on police and protestors both. State news was smothering the story, but to hear the underground broadcast tell it, the scene resembled something out of the Primal Wars.

 

Tumbler wrapped himself tighter around Prowl, rubbing his cheek along one doorwing. “It will be all right. Something will break, now. It has to.”

 

“Just – please don’t let go of me,” Prowl whispered back.

 

 

_II. The Act of Disclosure_

 

It broke… but not the way Tumbler had imagined. News of what had happened in Nyon leaked, and the Council had a new scapegoat: cold-constructed “seditious elements”, in the crowd and even among the police. The order for the exile of the cold-constructed came down the very next day.

 

“Try to think of it as good news,” Flatfoot told them. “You two are being entrusted with places on the security detail for the construction of a whole fleet of new Arks, which will whisk all you people off planet, and then? The galaxy’s your oyster! With all the new travel restrictions in the last century, you’ve probably got a better chance of getting to see something of the universe this way than if you’d stayed here. I almost wish I were going with you!”

 

Prowl waited until they were out of Flatfoot’s office. He waited through the evening shift. He waited until they were off duty and ensconced in a cell, finally away from listening ears.

 

Then he murmured to Tumbler, “There’s no chance they won’t want to make sure this is a one-way trip. They’re going to sabotage those ships. This isn’t exile; this is a mass execution.”

 

Tumbler stared at him, and started to tremble as Prowl’s words hit. “I’ve never told anyone this,” he said, “but… sometimes, I doubt Primus even _exists._ ” He slumped forward, and Prowl held him, pressing their foreheads together. “Because this can’t be His plan for us. It can’t.”

 

After a long moment, Prowl said, “I’m beginning to think there are no plans for us, unless we make them ourselves.”

 

 

_III. The Act of Profference_

 

It didn’t happen overnight. The construction of the ships took more than a decade. And Tumbler took a certain quiet pride in the fact that it might have been done in half that time, were it not for a certain pair of enforcers being a precisely-placed spanner in the works.

 

While maintaining a facade of absolute compliance, Prowl and Tumbler managed to slowly infiltrate every level of the construction – from the designs, to the procurement, to the disposables working the building sites, to carefully vetting the rest of the security detail and gradually replacing them with their own people. In the long run, it paid off. They found the bombs, extracted them carefully, disabled them, replaced them. They found the backups, too. They altered orders that would have had the ships launch with little fuel or no rations or disconnected nav computers. And some thirteen years on, the day was finally set for every cold-constructed citizen of Cybertron to embark on what – unbeknownst to the Council – were actually exactly what the Council claimed: comfortable, well-equipped vessels for long-term interstellar travel.

 

The night before the launch, Tumbler pulled Prowl aside, and handed him a wrapped package. “Here. For our new home, wherever it ends up being.”

 

Prowl neatly undid the tape and folded the wrapping paper away (which made Tumbler roll his optics fondly). Inside the box was a thin circle of glass, ringed with gold, dangling from a short chain. Prowl gasped as he drew it out, and the swirling purples and blues caught the light.

 

“It’s to go in a window. You know, either planetside or a porthole on a starship. Apparently, the colours will change with the colour of the sun wherever we settle, so...”

 

“Is that –?”

 

“Innermost energon between glass, yep.” Tumbler rested his fingerstips a bit bashfully against his chest. “Apparently I was born with an abundance of it, the doc said. And I wanted… I wanted it to be something you could look at, and remember that I love you.”

 

“I’ve got an eidetic memory, you idiot,” Prowl whispered while hugging the stuffing out of Tumbler, and Tumbler laughed.

 

 

_IV. The Act of Devotion_

 

It all went so well, up until it all went wrong.

 

The first few launches went off without a hitch. Prowl and Tumbler were slated to join the last ship, so they were able to patrol and ensure that each ship got away safely. But the departures were staggered enough that there were still half a dozen ships on the launchpad when One-of-Twelve murmured a small prayer to Primus and pressed the button to activate the first ship’s self-destruct. The ship was out of sight from the planet, but just at the edge of comms range, so the Council would receive a signal when the bomb went off.

 

Nothing happened.

 

He tried the backup. Also disconnected.

 

There were still four ships awaiting launch when the Council realised that the sabotage was systemic, and alarms came screeching on as they desperately tried to stop the last of the ships from leaving.

 

“We’ll have to trigger each launch manually!” Prowl yelled. He and Tumbler were pelting towards the first ship. “That means -”

 

“– that we’ll have to stay behind!” Tumbler finished as he reached the control panel, keying in a sequence and then standing back as the ship lifted off. “Hey, who wants to live forever, right?”

 

Above, the Council had dispatched aerial troops to try and shoot down the departing ships, but the Arks were too sturdy and too massive… and, as Tumbler spared a glance upwards, he realised that the pursuers had actually become engaged in fighting each other, letting the Arks escape. (It would be reported later that a Council enforcer by the name of Whirl had turned on his comrades, defending the Arks.)

 

The second and third ships were away, and Tumbler and Prowl were racing towards the last. They could hear the Council’s crack enforcement unit closing in behind them. Tumbler vaulted out of vehicle mode and ran over to the controls. “Just one more to – wait, what the frag? Prowl, what are you _doing_?” Because Prowl had grabbed him by the arm, and before Tumbler could break free, threw him bodily into the ship’s airlock and slammed the door shut behind him.

 

Tumbler sprang to his feet and hammered at the airlock door. “Prowl! Prowl, let me out, I’m not leaving you!”

 

He couldn’t hear through the glass, but he could see Prowl mouthing something.

 

_The act of devotion._

 

“Prowl, NO!”

 

And then the ship shook, and began to ascend.

 

Back on the ground, Prowl stepped away from the controls and watched Tumbler’s ship soar out of sight. He only turned when he heard two dozen rifles cocking behind him.

 

Gazing coolly at the row of soldiers pointing their weapons at his head, he said only, “That’s my conjunx. And you scumbags will never catch him.”

 

Then he closed his optics as the bullets came.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional warning: Major character death.


	24. DJD Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tarn has an unexpected encounter with a kindred spirit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for romantic/intimate content (nothing above a PG-13 at most).

“Helex.” Tarn’s voice sent a shiver through Helex’s spark. It wasn’t The Voice; it was, in certain respects, worse. This was Tarn being _disappointed._ “I thought we were quite clear. If we are going to go for a drink here without sending patrons and bar staff scattering inconveniently in all directions, we will need to remain inconspicuous.”

 

Tesarus, who was draped in a large, drab poncho of organic material and had a broad visor concealing his distinctive X optic, nodded earnestly. Vos pointed in irritation at the false wings he’d pasted on his back, then in the vague direction of where a mouth would be if he had one (he’d been told to stay quiet to avoid drawing attention to his use of Primal Vernacular).

 

“I get it, Tarn,” Helex assured him.

 

“So what...” Tarn drew out the words until they became almost unbearable. “Is that?”

 

Helex spread his arms wide, showing off the garment. “It covers my smelter! And it looks _cool_!”

 

The shirt was a cacophony of colour. The background wasn’t so bad, being loyal Decepticon purple (if a particularly lurid shade); on top of that were splashes of turquoise, red, yellow, tangerine, and emerald, all forming an intricate pattern of alien flora and fauna. Neon pink creatures with big optics and curly tails peaked out from between blue-and-yellow tree trunks, and shimmering silver fish swam in magnificent orange lakes. Emblazoned across the front, in purple glitter, was the phrase _Kiss Me, I’m Tetrahexian._

 

“And the best part is, I’m _not_ really Tetrahexian!” Helex winked. “So it’s a perfect disguise.”

 

Kaon – who was sporting a fake set of tank treads over his Tesla coils – wrinkled his nose. “Perfectly foul is what it is.”

 

“You can’t even see!”

 

“I can _hear_ those colours from here.”

 

“In fairness, Tarn,” Tesarus pointed out, “no one _would_ think he’s DJD.”

 

“Look, fine. Let’s just...” Tarn waved a hand weakly. The other plucked at his own disguise: a faceplate and a traditional red visor. He’d changed in his quarters and tucked his mask away in subspace, ready to hand in case Tarn of the DJD needed to re-emerge at a moment’s notice. (He’d grown so much more reticent about appearing bare-faced in front of his own DJD, he noted ruefully.) Much as he told himself that he was completely concealed – scars, features, and all covered – he couldn’t quite stop fretting at the faceplate. It just _felt_ like less protection.

 

A gust of warm, damp air and a blast of music hit them as the door to the club opened. Helex let out a whoop. Kaon beamed. Tarn, meanwhile, was scanning the room, double-checking every face against the updated version of the List on his HUD. When no matches appeared, he gave a nod, and his teammates scampered off to the dance floor.

 

Tarn suddenly felt a little bereft. Annoyance was hot on its heels, though, papering over the hurt. _Typical, I plan a team-building exercise and now I’m stuck alone at the bar, listening to this awful noise all night._

 

He leaned an elbow on the bar, ordered a triple-filtered high grade neat, and glumly watched Helex and Tesarus play demolition derby on the dance floor. Against all odds, they seemed to have attracted some admirers.

 

“Not your kind of music, either, I gather,” said a voice next to Tarn.

 

He started and glanced down. Beside him was a mech whose paintjob gave off a subtle, lustrous gleam that spoke of a much higher grade of polish than the cheap, blinding finishes of the bots around them. As the bot leaned in close, Tarn could smell the lingering scent of ozone and stardust. He felt a sudden stab of _want,_ as his fingers itched to touch that finish.

 

Well. Tarn was never very good at denying himself.

 

“What gave me away?” he asked with an inviting tilt of the head, even as he ran the mech through his internal databanks. If this one was on the List, Tarn would be so put out… ah. He sat up a little straighter. Not a List mech, but rather one of the infamous Combaticons. Blast Off. Now _that_ was interesting. A quick glance around revealed that the rest of Blast Off’s team were scattered about the room: Brawl had joined Tesarus and Helex in tearing up the dance floor (sometimes literally); Vortex and Vos were chattering away, their conversation too distant to hear, but their body language _very_ excited; and there, standing in a corner with his arms crossed, was the team leader, Onslaught.

 

Blast Off’s voice was richly amused. “Let’s just say you look the way I feel.” He leaned closer. “So. If you had your way, who would we be listening to instead?”

 

“I’m a Vosian opera fan, myself.” Tarn paused, because here the territory became tricky. Not all the operas Old Vos had produced were considered entirely in line with proper Decepticon doctrine. “Do you know _The Ember of Flight_?” There; that should be safe enough. It was an ancient work, swooningly romantic, but with enough anti-Prime sentiment (dating as it did from just after Nova’s unification, and hearkening back to an earlier time of proud, independent city-states) to be on the approved list. It was also one of Tarn’s favourites.

 

Blast Off’s visor glowed, and he launched into a discussion of the work’s main aria, and then delighted Tarn by gushing about one of the lesser-known songs from the second act, called “Let The Battle Be Joined”: a bittersweet duet by the two lovers, separated on the eve of war. Tarn warmly approved Blast Off’s choices, and they chattered quite happily through several more rounds. Then Blast Off – moving with the deliberation of the slightly tipsy – set his cube down and sighed. “I know I shouldn’t, but… there are times when I miss it. I mean, did you ever _see_ the opera house of Old Vos? Or the grand theatre in Praxus?”

 

Tarn stiffened. Nostalgia for pre-war grandeur wasn’t exactly treason, but it was still a fault, a dangerous temptation to the side of evil. Tarn had had to be very strict with himself about such feelings. Yet he couldn’t quite bring himself to sour such a lovely conversation. He chose his words carefully. “I was a singer, before the war. I had the opportunity to see a number of the great halls.”

 

Blast Off almost fell off his bar stool. “ _Really_? You _must_ tell me what it was like!”

 

Tarn grimaced under his mask. The pre-war arts world had never been exactly kind to one of his politics and his… gifts, and that had been before the empurata. Afterwards, no director would let him within five feet of a stage. “I prefer to look to the future,” he said, setting his own cube down with a flourish. “Once Megatron is victorious, the new operas will be about _our_ triumphs. And no one will be turned away at the door for having the wrong alt mode.”

 

Blast Off was gazing up at him, one hand slowly drifting to rest on Tarn’s. He murmured throatily, “You know, I probably shouldn’t say this, but...”

 

“Yes?” Tarn purred, sliding closer.

 

“… you really remind me of someone.”

 

It was probably a mistake to follow the glow of Blast Off’s visor as it slid unconsciously across the room, and settled on Onslaught. Tarn took a closer look at the Combaticon leader. A massive tank, almost of Tarn’s build… with the same red visor, the same faceplate Tarn was currently sporting.

 

“Oh.” For a moment, Tarn felt a bitter little twist in his spark. Typical. People always wanted him as a representation of something else, whether it was the Cause, the intriguing threat of the DJD, or simply the person they really wanted and couldn’t have. It wasn’t as though he’d never taken advantage, but just now, the thought made him feel _tired._

 

But then again…

 

He turned back just as Blast Off, now blushing profoundly, started to stammer apologies. “Oh, that – that was unforgivably rude, I’m so sorry –”

 

It wasn’t as though Blast Off didn’t represent something to Tarn, as well. Refined, pretty, cultured Blast Off, with his untainted memories of Cybertron-that-was. He was everything Glitch had once longed to be. And he wanted _Tarn_.

 

Tarn let his gaze soften. “Not at all. I’m flattered by the comparison. But there’s one crucial difference between the two of us...”

 

He leaned in so close to Blast Off that their masks were practically touching. “You see, _he_ is all the way over _there_ , whereas I… am right...”

 

Now Tarn did nuzzle his mask against Blast Off’s, and Blast Off opened his own faceplate, his lips parting in a soft gasp.

 

“Here,” Tarn finished in triumph.


	25. Scavengers Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Or, How Misfire Got His Name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for violence and death. Thundersaur's personality here and his history with Krok and Misfire are entirely my own invention; I'm just playing around. :)

The thing is, Decepticons pay their debts.

 

The thing is, ‘Misfire’ isn’t a nickname so much as a line of defence.

 

The thing is, it isn’t really that short a story (although it does involve a lot of dead Decepticons).

 

It begins when a young Decepticon jet, scouting a backwater planet, stumbles across a little knot of mechs who aren’t supposed to be there. They’re clustered down an alley, surrounding something he can’t see. Occasionally, one will dart forward and aim a punch, or a kick, or take one of the vicious-looking blades a few of them are holding and slash downwards with it; the first few strikes spark agonised bellows from whatever is in the middle of the circle, but after a few, the bellows fade into whimpers. That only seems to make the mechs turn more vicious. And after every strike, they laugh.

 

In the end, it’s not the screams or the whimpers that get to Flyhigh; it’s the laughter. He’s always considered himself a connoisseur of laughter, and this… this grates like static along his every wire.

 

He lands and strolls as casually as he can into the alley. “Hey, fellas, what’s going on?”

 

Two of the crowd turn round, and Flyhigh can see the Deceptibrands on their armour _._ He should go. This is official business, more likely than not; and it’s not his concern if a few grunts get a little overzealous in the pursuit of their duties. The problem is, when they turn towards him, he also gets a glimpse at their quarry behind them.

 

He’s a beastformer – some kind of massive lizard – and he’s a _wreck._ Gashes and burns pockmark his flanks. His arms are broken, twisted at sickening angles. One optic is smashed and dangling from its socket; the other stares wildly around, spotting Flyhigh with an expression of disbelief. Flyhigh is all too familiar with the sight of a cornered, wounded beastformer, surrounded by a baying crowd. People like this were hunted almost for sport, in the days before the war. The Decepticon revolt was supposed to mean that it never happened again.

 

The beastformer straightens, and Flyhigh sees the purple badge on his chest, too.

 

_Especially not to our own._

 

“Why don’t you just let him alone, hey?” he asks brightly. “You’ve had your fun; he’s not a threat to you. Why don’t I just slip… right in here, and then – oof, you’re heavier than you look, pal,” he murmurs as he tucks an arm carefully around the beastformer’s battered chassis. “And then we’ll get out of your way?”

 

“I don’t think so, squirt,” one of the other ’Cons growls. “I think we’re going to finish what we started. And _then_ we’ll deal with you.”

 

“Stay back!”

 

“Frag you. Boys. Take him.”

 

“I said –” Flyhigh levels his gun – the best he’s got, the new, experimental model for aerial troops from Bludgeon’s laboratory – at the advancing Decepticons. “Stay. Back!”

 

All he can see are cruel smiles closing in on him, and that laughter surrounds him, and he squeezes the trigger.

 

There’s an awful silence.

 

Flyhigh opens his optics and looks around, at the pile of bodies with astonished looks on their faces.

 

“Oh, _frag,_ ” he says feelingly.

 

Beside him, a wet rattle draws his attention back to the mech he guesses he’s just rescued. Flyhigh bends closer to hear what he’s saying. “Thank you,” the beastformer gasps. “Thank you. Megatron’s collection agents are a vicious bunch. Some days, I think I’d rather face the DJD.”

 

“Megatron’s – _what_?” Flyhigh’s spark whirls in his chest.

 

One bleary red optic regards him. “Didn’t you know? So – Black Shadow didn’t send you?”

 

“ _Black Shadow_? The most notorious gangster in the faction?”

 

“I would have hoped _second-_ most notorious,” the beastformer says drily. “My business partner, in a manner of speaking. I’m Thundersaur.”

 

Flyhigh gapes. “Then – then these guys –”

 

“Were here to kill me for reneging on a deal with Decepticon High Command, yes.”

 

“Oh, _frag_!”

 

Thundersaur smiles, a little sadly. “I’d tell people that gun misfired, if I were you. And hey – don’t worry. You’ve earned yourself a favour from...” The smile grows broad. “The _most_ notorious gangster in the faction. You know what they say. You groom my wings, I groom yours.”

 

***

 

Krok and Spinister eye the armed guards around them, and try not to look suspcious.

 

“Let ’em through, boys,” croaks a voice beyond the curtain. One of the guards lifts it aside, and ushers the pair into a large, lushly appointed room, where a single Cybertronian lies on a canopied bed. The sound of his ventilations rattling in his throat are the only sound.

 

Krok hurries over and crouches by the bedside. “Thundersaur, I’m so sorry –”

 

“It’s appreciated.” One hand reaches up to weakly brush Krok’s head. “But unnecessary. Cybercrosis; the perils of living so well, for such a very long time. I don’t have regrets.” Thundersaur smiles. “Krok. You remember that favour you owe me?”

 

“Of course. You saved my life that day.”

 

“Well, I’m calling it in.” And Thundersaur beckons Krok to lean close.

 

A few hours later, the Foragers are back on their ship, speeding to intercept a prison transport, and Krok is pondering the name Thundersaur gave him. _Flyhigh._ Thundersaur practically collected favours and IOUs, but dispensed precious few in his lifetime. What could this mysterious warrior have done to put _Thundersaur_ in his debt?

 

If Flyhigh is frightening enough to be worth Thundersaur’s dying wish to discharge his obligation, Krok shudders at the thought of meeting him.


	26. Cyclonus & Tailgate

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tailgate is back from a long trip, and Cyclonus has a confession about what he's been up to while he's away.

Tailgate was exhausted when he arrived home – visiting Rewind and Chromedome had been a lot easier back on the _Lost Light,_ when it meant a few minutes in the lift and a stroll down the corridor, not a three-week jaunt to the colony world where Rewind was making the latest in his new series of documentaries. However, his sheer relief at opening his own front door faded fast when Cyclonus met him on the doorstep. There was something in Cyclonus’s expression that put Tailgate immediately on edge. He looked almost… hunted.

 

“Cyclonus?” Tailgate set down his bags and reached to take Cyclonus’s hands in his own.

 

“I...” Cyclonus clung to his hands, cycling a deep ventilation. “There is something you need to know, Tailgate. I didn’t wish this to come as a surprise, but I was unable to reach you...”

 

“Yes, the signal from Eukaris was terrible. Cyclonus, what is it?”

 

“In your absence, I have done… something… I have made a decision that will affect our life together, and I did so without consulting you. I’m sorry.”

 

“What do you –”

 

Just then, there was a soft _mwaaaarp? s_ ound from somewhere near floor level, and Cyclonus bowed his head. “This is Crysmagnetal.”

 

A tiny, feline head with big yellow optics poked around Cyclonus’s legs.

 

Tailgate dropped Cyclonus’s hands to clutch both of his together over his spark. His visor went so wide that Cyclonus swore he could see stars reflected in it, and if he listened very carefully, he could practically hear Tailgate vibrating.

 

“Now, I’ve had Ratchet check her over, and even taken her to a mnemosurgeon, and they’re satisfied that she is a true cybercat, not some unfortunate soul subjected to domestication,” Cyclonus said. “Her species was quite common in our day; I cared for two myself, in my youth. Much rarer now, of course.” They’d been hunted almost to extinction under the Functionists, but it didn’t seem like the time to mention that. “I found her a week ago, scavenging for fuel in a scrapheap, so I took her in.”

 

Tailgate finally managed, “KITTY!”

 

Cyclonus smiled in relief. “I hoped you would approve. It is entirely up to you, of course; we can find her another home -”

 

“No, don’t you dare!” Tailgate crouched down – well, crouched down even further, and extended his fingers towards Crysmagnetal. The cybercat sniffed them daintily and regarded Tailgate for a long, wary moment. Then, without warning, she bolted back into the house, leaving him looking crestfallen.

 

“She’s a bit shy,” said Cyclonus, helping him up. “She’s had time to get used to me; it was days before she stopped hiding under the bed.”

 

“It’s okay. I’ll win her over.”

 

***

 

All through that evening, and for the next couple of weeks, Tailgate was unerringly patient with the cybercat. It made Cyclonus’s spark swell, watching Tailgate spend hours gradually coaxing her round. He would sit still with a datapad for a whole evening, while Crysmagnetal crept closer, eventually butting her head against his fingers; or he would slow-blink his visor from the other end of the sofa, as she stared at him and then, eventually, blinked in return. Tailgate never reprimanded her for being distant, but would praise her lavishly when she did let down her guard enough to spend time with him.

 

By the third week, Crysmagnetal – now sleek and fat and shiny – was sleeping sprawled across Tailgate’s lap, her engine purring nonstop while he skritched her ears. “Good Nettie. Goooood cat.”

 

Cyclonus moved to sit behind him on the sofa, curling around Tailgate. “You’ve certainly won her over.”

 

“I always do,” said Tailgate mysteriously, before reaching a hand up to skritch between Cyclonus’s horns.


	27. The Guiding Hand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning in advance: Even the summary below spoils up through LL 22 (though not more than reading the list of Lost Light Fest prompts will, so hopefully you'll all know this stuff already :)).
> 
>  
> 
> A combination of the prompts for days 27 - 31 of Lost Light Fest (Tyrest/Solomus, Pharma/Adaptus, Magnificence/Epistemus, Censere/Mortilus, and Rung/Primus). I decided to do a single story telling the history of the Guiding Hand - their emergence, their early days, and a taste of what became of them. And why.
> 
> Or, what happens when everyone wants to be the god of creation, and the actual god of creation just wants not to be alone.

_In the time before time, Primus became. He came from the not-knowing into the knowing, and from the darkness into the light. This, above all, is known._

 

_What has been forgotten – the first of many things to be forgotten – is that the second to emerge was not Adaptus, as later myths would have it, but Mortilus._

 

_It was not immediate. The First wandered the fresh, raw planet alone for a long time; long enough to map its surface and its stars. Long enough, in fact, that his loneliness began to consume him. It was when he had given up, and sat down upon the still-warm surface of the world to weep, that he saw the second hotspot start to glow. Within hours, there was a hand like his own emerging from a little lump of a protoform. Primus took it, and held it, and soon a being like himself stood before him. At the sight, Primus smiled. And the Second mirrored him._

 

_For an even longer time, they walked the world hand in hand, Life and Death, Light and Dark. Theirs was the closest friendship of the Guiding Hand, even after the others came along: proud Solomus, distant Epistemus, Adaptus with his sharp wits and sharper claws. Each of the three had Plans for the new race of people born from the planet’s surface._

 

_*_

 

The chief of the Omega Guardians pets the cool casing of what they have come to call the Magnificence. It’s understood within the upper echelons of the Guardians what it truly is – _who_ it truly is – but that name is not used for the artefact. Not any more.

 

“Keep hold of our wisdom,” she whispers. “Guard our secrets. Tell our story. Our essence within you is all that shall linger of us in the Lower Realms.”

 

Then she places the artefact on its pedestal, and goes to join her people for the final Ascent.

 

*

 

_But Primus and Mortilus had no such plans. They simply delighted in each new life the Guiding Hand helped bring forth._

 

_*_

 

“Sir, please! What we’re doing, it’s sacrilege!”

 

“More to the point, Tyrest,” pleads a second voice – Shockwave, _naturally,_ Jhiaxus’s pet yet again interfering in matters far beyond his scope – “the last thing we need is a way to mass-produce more people. As it is, Cybertron could be looking at a critical energon shortage in as little as twelve million years. We need to focus on alternatives for feeding the people we _have_. Have you had a chance to look over my paper on why the hotspots cooling isn’t a bad –”

 

“ _Silence_.” Tyrest adjusts the controls, watching the beam emitters line up at half a dozen points just above the surface of the Matrix. (The sight makes him a little queasy, too, but he can’t admit that, not here.) “I will not let our people stagnate and die because the planet is being uncooperative. Prepare to initiate trial.”

 

“Primus will punish us for this,” the tech whimpers, but he throws the switch.

*

 

_Solomus, Epistemus, and Adaptus each wanted to remake Cybertronians in their own image. They looked out at the world, and wished people were better than they were – more knowledgable, wiser, more evolved. But Solomus and Epistemus, at least, were willing to be patient. They focused on teaching the new Cybertronians, even as Primus and Mortilus cared for them._

 

_Adaptus was not so easily satisfied._

 

*

 

“He actually _shot_ me! And after I went out of my way to spare him! He could have… could have...”

 

**Killed you? He did, actually.**

 

Pharma freezes, and turns slowly. There’s no one behind him. No one anywhere on this desolate stretch of metal, in fact.

 

“Where are you?”

 

**HERE.**

 

Pharma jolts, every cable in his body going rigid as _some_ kind of force rips through him. He can feel his spark stop, and it feels like dying –

 

– and then everything speeds up. Days and nights seem to strobe over him, the planet whirling under his feet. His very sparkbeat seems to hang suspended, as time races past him.

 

Just as suddenly, things stabilise and he falls to his knees on the pristine, dead surface of this world.

 

He gets up… but it’s not him getting up. He can _feel_ the motion, but did not initiate it. One hand settles of its own accord against his cheek; his jaw works a few times, and then he can hear his own voice speaking words that aren’t his:

 

“Well, well. Not ideal, but not bad as bodies go. It will suffice. And ooh –”

 

One chainsaw comes roaring out of Pharma’s wrist.

 

“Now _these_ are going to be fun.”

 

*

 

_After the Great Forgetting, the four who had tried to defend Cybertron parted. They did not recognise themselves in the new idols their descendants raised of them, or in the rules and teachings those descendants attributed to them. They did not recognise each other._

 

_And Solomus, Epistemus, and Adaptus each, in time, tried to usurp the role of Primus – to make, or remake, Cybertronians after their own fashion. But Mortilus wandered the stars, and only intervened to mark the fall of each and every one of the Cybertronians he had loved so much. For that is a god’s duty, too, no matter how much his spark breaks: to make sure that none of his people die and are forgotten._

_It was long, long eons before one of those people suggested to Mortilus that he could do more than simply count the dead; that he could rescue those who were soon to die, and grant them a second life. And perhaps this, too, was usurpation. But perhaps Primus would not have minded._

 

*

 

“What do you want us to do with the stiff, Tarn?”

 

Tarn thrusts out a hand trembling with rage towards the still body of the so-called Necrobot. Half-crushed within Tarn’s fist are perhaps a dozen of the blue spark flowers that carpet this planet. All of them were plucked from below his own monument.

 

“Fill his mouth with these,” he growls. “Let him serve as a warning that the power to judge guilt belongs only to the DJD.”

 

*

 

_And Primus was alone once more._

 

_He wandered Cybertron again, but this time, he was not a lone god bestriding an empty world. This time, the world was full of people, all so tantalisingly close. But reaching out to them was like trying to reach through glass. Sometimes, there were rules that kept him apart: he could not befriend those he healed (and he was still, even without his memories, forever driven to heal). Sometimes, ordinary life interceded, petty jealousies, unfortunate circumstances. But most often, people simply forgot about him. And because Primus had forgotten himself, he never knew why. The god of light came to believe he was simply not worth remembering._

 

_Very, very occasionally, he could reach through the glass, and find the touch of fingertips against his own, for a time. And again, because he did not remember, Primus did not understand why his friends were always taken from him, by distance or regulation or death, while he lived and lived and lived._

 

_And then, one day, he reached towards the glass, and found someone who grabbed him by the whole arm and pulled him right through._

 

*

 

“Here you go.” A cube plonks down in front of Rung. “Regular grade energon, warm, with two scoops of mercury shavings and a lithium quartz on top.”

 

Rung glances up from his model ship in shock and delight. “That’s – that’s exactly right! You remembered!”

 

“Yes, I remembered your terrible sweet tooth.” Skids slides into the booth beside Rung, bumping his shoulder against him companionably. “How’s the _Ark-12_ coming along?”

 

“Mmmm, well, I’ve almost got the undercarriage detailed. I’ll stop for a bit to let it dry, though.” He turns his attention to his drink, and, more importantly, to his drinking companion. “And you? How are the shooting lessons for Swerve going?”

 

Skids sips his own cube and hums. “Pretty good, in the sense that I don’t think he’ll manage to blow his own face off again any time soon.”

“I’d call that a triumph. Poor Swerve; no one should have to go through that twice.” Rung smiles. “He’s lucky to have you as a friend.”

 

Skids’s smile is a bit shy. “The truth is, I like being able to help. Even a little. It feels like I’m… making up for something.”

 

“For what?”

 

“That’s just it: I don’t remember. It’s just a – a nagging sense, without the memories to back it up. Does that sound crazy?”

 

Rung thinks for a long moment. “No,” he says slowly, “no, I don’t think it sounds crazy at all. If anything, it all sounds rather familiar.”

 

Skids studies him closely. “But you don’t have anything to atone for.”

 

“You don’t know that.” Rung’s smile turns sad. “Even _I_ don’t know that.”

 

“I know _you_. You’re the best person I know, Rung.”

 

Skids’s hand is broad and warm, wrapped around his own, and Rung can feel tears prickle at the corners of his optics. “My dear...”

 

“It’s true.”

 

“Even if it were – even the best among us can do things wrong, sometimes terrible things.” He lays his other hand on top of Skids’s. “And even people with terrible things in their pasts can be the best of us.”

 

Skids lets out a pained ventilation, and lays his forehead against Rung’s.

 

“You’re a good person, Skids,” Rung murmurs. “Who ever you were, whatever you unearth in your memories – _you_ are good. Don’t forget that.”

 

*

 

_In the back of a bar on a wandering starship, twelve billion years from where he started, Primus stayed in that embrace. And the lost god of light was not alone._


End file.
